Shadows Of The Past
by GrayLadyOfTheSea
Summary: A fallen hero trying to pull together the shreds of his life. A mysterious woman with plenty of secrets. An ancient and high-powered secret society seeking vengeance. But when everything falls apart, unlike alliances are forged and sides are taken. Can enemies find comfort in each other's arms… in the most unexpected of situations? Drama/ Adventure/ Romance.
1. 1 Prelude To Chaos

**== SHADOWS OF THE PAST ==**

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own the Dark Knight Trilogy or Batman or any related character. That belongs to Bob Kane, DC Comics, and Warner Bros. Batman is a creation of Bob Kane and Bill Finger. The Dark Knight Trilogy is a creation of Christopher Nolan, Jonathan Nolan and David Goyer. This applies to all chapters.

**AN**: Well, that's just an idea under construction while I figure a way of going on with "_The Knight's Last Temptation_". If it has a good feedback, then I shall keep going. Otherwise, I'll stop updating it.

Again, English is not my native language, so my sincere apologies for possible errors of grammar, punctuation and spelling. Reviews (negatives and positives), suggestions and beta readers are very welcome. Hope you enjoy it.

* * *

**1\. PRELUDE TO CHAOS**

"_We are made wise not by the recollection of our past, but by the responsibility for our future." - George Bernard Shaw_

_**8 years ago**_

"Harvey Dent was needed. He was everything Gotham has been crying out for. He was… a hero. Not the hero we deserved — the hero we needed. Nothing less than a knight, shining…"

Standing before a podium, Police Commissioner James Gordon addressed the huge crowd gathered in front of the courthouse. At least a dozen media outlets were broadcasting the event live, and everywhere he looked around he could see microphones, cameras and cell phones capturing every word spoken by him. It was intimidating to say the least and he felt like a fraud.

As he delivered remarks about the courage and heroism of Harvey Dent, a massive picture of the deceased district attorney stood behind him. In contrast to the monster he had turned into in his last hours of life, Dent looked like a typical movie heartthrob in that image and that was how Gordon expected him to remain in the minds of the people of Gotham City.

He glanced over at the VIP tribune, where somber dignitaries, including the mayor and the city council, were on hand to honor Dent's memory. No one there had any idea or suspected of what the real Harvey Dent had been capable of doing. That was a secret he shared with only one other man, a man who had sacrificed his own legend to preserve Dent's legacy and reputation.

Hesitating briefly, he continued, "But I knew Harvey Dent. I was… his friend. And it will be a very long time before someone inspires us the way he did."

Choked with emotion, Gordon gathered the papers of his eulogy and, before exiting the podium, he said, "I believed in Harvey Dent."

* * *

_**3 years ago**_

Light rain was pouring down as a lonely figure walked among the tombstones, fighting the puddles and the bitterly chilling air. Although it was still daytime, the sky had grown quite dark all of sudden. It looked like everything was conspiring in favor of a sober, sad atmosphere.

The graveyard was situated in the grounds of an antique Romanesque-style church tucked away behind a narrow street not far from Gotham's old financial district. It was a picturesque place where the usual cacophony of the downtown area was often replaced by the harrowing sound of silence and, sometimes, by pealing bells.

Maneuvering a cane in one hand and a black umbrella in the other, the man headed toward the well-known site that housed the remains of his childhood sweetheart. He had done the same ritual around this date over the past five years and he always could not help the poignant sense of loss and grief.

The man finally stood in front of a spartan gravestone, on which could be read "_RACHEL DAWES, Beloved Daughter and Friend, a brave woman in the service of justice, RIP," _and put a small bouquet of purple dahlias — her favorite flowers — on it.

He uttered a quiet prayer and closed his eyes. Flashes of every people he felt he had failed in his life swirled into his mind. His parents, Rachel, Harvey, even Ducard. One after another, their faces turned into a sinister laugh. The killing laugh of the Joker. Suddenly he heard a choked howl, the sound of an animal in pain. Then he realized the guttural noise had been emitted by himself.

"I'm so sorry, Rach," Bruce Wayne whispered into the falling rain, only to then turn around and storm back to the car.

Feeling utterly drained as if nothing could soothe the pain and distress he was experiencing at the memory of his lovely best friend, he sat behind the wheel and inhaled deeply. After a brief pause he switched on the engine and turned on the radio, surfing from channel to channel until he found a news station.

"Today marks the 5-year anniversary of Harvey Dent's death. To pay tribute to the deceased District Attorney, Mayor Anthony Garcia established a new municipal holiday, the Harvey Dent Day," the female broadcaster announced. "Garcia said that Dent was and still is an inspiration for the people of Gotham City, and several free events are planned throughout this day and in the following as part of honoring the memory of this hero who died in line of duty."

He kept listening to the day's headlines until he lost patience and tuned in a period pop music station. The old stuff. He started to pay attention to the song that was playing. He smiled and then failed miserably in his attempt to sing along the song like a happy idiot.

The last five years had been full of ups and downs in Bruce's life. His double persona as a masked vigilante had been put aside and he had begun to devote himself to his family business. The beginning had been tough but he soon had earned the respect and trust of Wayne Enterprises Board of Directors.

With Lucius Fox's help, he had managed to run the company for quite some time. But his dreaming of helping the city without the cape and cowl had gone down the drain when he had learned about an east European scientist, who, in simple terms, had found a way to turn a fusion reactor into a nuclear weapon. Thus, Wayne believed his brainchild — the clean energy project — was not worth the risk and decided to shut it down.

Once Wayne Enterprises entire R&amp;D budget had been used in its creation, and Bruce himself had heavily invested in it, cancelling the project led to an uproar in the markets. The company's stocks dropped 28.24% within a matter of two days.

Frustrated and defeated, Bruce tendered his resignation to the board and pointed Fox as the new acting CEO. He hoped the trick would calm down the markets anytime soon and would rise the company's institutional credibility.

His only worry right now was how to deal with the second main project investor — TELOS Holdings Inc. Perhaps it would be wise to leave it to someone who really knew how to manage a business crisis.

* * *

"All set to the videoconference, ma'am," a young, dark-complexioned man who looked Middle Eastern stated as soon as Nattie St. Dumas stepped into her luxurious hotel suite.

"Thank you, Zayn," she dismissed him politely, crossing the room, and then took a seat in front of the laptop.

Her gaze fixed on the computer screen, on which the CEO of Wayne Enterprises was awaiting her.

"Good morning, Mr. Fox," she began flatly. "I hope you have good news for me."

"Good afternoon, Ms. St. Dumas," Lucius Fox's voice echoed out from the tech device in his usual nice manner. "Or should I say good evening?"

"Well it's almost evening over here," she replied as her hand gestured to her surroundings. "So, Mr. Fox, I imagine you haven't set up this meeting just to make small talk."

A forced, sick smile played at Lucius's lips. "I'm afraid I'm not the bearer of good news. Mr. Wayne remains steadfast in his decision. He demanded to freeze the experimental fusion reactor project, to lock the files and reassign the resources."

"So it's true, then," she said coolly, though there was a hint of rage in her voice. "He can't make a call like that without consulting me first. As the main supporter of this project I should be involved in a decision of such critical importance. Don't you think so?"

"I'm very sorry, Ms. St. Dumas." Normally tough as nails, Lucius cleared his throat in what looked, on the computer screen, like embarrassment. "It's purely precautionary."

"We're making progress. What happened?"

"Basically, the machine doesn't work as expected. Mr. Wayne believes it's just safest if we knock it down before it lead us all to bankruptcy."

Nattie's blood sizzled but she held her face steady. "And what about all the inflow I've done? Most of it comes from a collective investment fund. What am I supposed to say to my investor partners?"

"Surely we can reach an agreement that will benefit all parties," Lucius replied, sounding as placatory as he could. "As you may know, by the contract terms, TELOS Holdings is entitled to some kind of compensation in cases like this. That's why Wayne Enterprises is willing to assign part of its senior quotas to your company."

"That doesn't strike me as a good deal. The value of the company's stock has plummeted in the last few days."

"Trust me, the tide's gonna change." He sounded a bit more confident right now. "Besides, those shares will ensure you a position at the Board. They will give you the right to vote on Wayne Enterprises business decisions as one of majority shareholders."

It was an irresistible offer, yet she seemed to ponder it for a few seconds.

"Tell me, Mr. Fox, do you really think that's enough to keep me from calling my lawyers?"

Lucius grinned at her challenge. "A good business person always knows what something is worth. And I'm sure you know that few things are priceless."

A seat on the Board of Directors of one of the largest multinationals in the world was one of these things for sure.

The edge of Nattie's lips curved up slightly into what it looked like the outline of a smile. "As you Americans say, it's a winwin, right?"

"That's right, Ms. St. Dumas," Fox agreed with a chuckle. Apparently, they were on the same page now.

But the other executive was unwilling to missing out an important point. "What's going to happen to the reactor?"

"Ah… Actually…" Fox seemed unsure whether the news might upset Nattie even more. "That's classified info I'm not allowed to share."

"No. I think I have a right to know," she insisted calmly, but firmly. Her flaming gaze was highlighting the implacability which had made her name as much feared as respected in the business world.

Defeated, the man sighed wearily. "All I know is that it will be stored in one of WE's warehouses. Mr. Wayne's really playing it close to his chest."

"Any chance I could change his mind? I mean, about the program cancellation..."

"Good luck with that, cuz I haven't had any."

Nattie chuckled and the smile became real. Shaking her head at him, she seemed to enjoy herself. "My powers of persuasion are often to be reckoned with."

"I must warn you that Bruce Wayne isn't a man easy to be persuaded."

"I'll take my chances."

"Well, if you plan to join us, you'll be very welcome here in Gotham."

"I'm sure I will," she said, taking a quick glance at the computer clock. It was nearly 6:30 which meant she was late to get ready for her next appointment on the other side of the town. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Fox, I really have to dash. I've got a business dinner to attend in less than an hour and I still need to get ready. I'll get in touch."

"Thank you for your understanding. I'm sorry for how things turned out but I'm sure we'll figure a way around the problem."

"I hope so. Have a good day, Mr. Fox."

Lucius gave a half nod. "You too, Ms. St. Dumas. Bye"

Nattie switched off the video conferencing service and Lucius's face disappeared, giving way to a dark screen. Then she stood up gently and walked over to the French doors that led out to the balcony. Looking out the window, she was rewarded with a glorious Bosphorus view. The sky was beginning to darken as the last rays of sun were fading away at the horizon. It was a shame she could not enjoy the city's attractions properly.

Being in Istanbul for a four-day business trip, she had no time for distractions. Running a millionaire investment company left little to time to live a creative and meaningful life, and the raw reality was that she was always focused on work. Nattie knew very well that technical brilliance alone build no empire. It was the energy source of one's drive combined with a volatile degree of unpredictability which kept competitors at bay in a cut-throat market. She was hoping that on the conclusion of this important endeavor she finally could carry on a more normal life — whatever this may mean.

As her mind replayed her conversation with Fox, she realized that, in hindsight her plan had gone according to her calculations right down the line. Even Wayne throwing a full-fledged spanner in the works, the timing was so perfect that she almost laughed out loud.

The man was not a fool, and no matter how much obsessed he was with the clean energy project, he would never put the lives of his fellow citizens at risk. _No, not Bruce Wayne. _He would rather give up his valuable properties than that.

The linkages that existed in place for her to take advantage of this opportunity were mind-blowing with their simplicity. Not even in her most optimistic thoughts Nattie could have envisaged an outcome so advantageous as this. If there was such a thing as karma, this was it.

All she had to do was adjust her tactics with Wayne and his allies a little bit and work really hard in order to achieve her ultimate goal. The question was: How to approach her target? Oddly, neither she nor Wayne had showed any interest in meeting each other face-to-face. And they did not really need it. From the initial negotiations until now, Lucius Fox had always acted as an intermediary between them. Wayne seemed to be more concerned with the engineering than the financial side of the project.

Would be this the ideal time to confront her antagonist in his own backyard? To finally face down the spoiled and irresponsible man she had learned to despise? Something was telling her that she was going to enjoy every minute of it.

Suddenly, a barely perceptible movement in the darkness startled her and broke her train of thought. She peered into the gloom and then became aware of no longer being alone in that hotel room.


	2. 2 A Perfect Plan

**AN:** As I'd already mentioned, "Shadows of the Past" is going to be a kind of writing experiment while TKLT is shelved. I'm still deciding if this work should be rated T or M due some violent content.

As you might see below, and throughout this story, this is a retelling of TDKR events. I know you must be thinking: "Again?" Yeah, again… I've thought I still could extract some juice of this orange (hehehe).

Still, I made a few modifications because I truly believe that less is more. So, Bane's plan is gonna be less over elaborate and more elegant and objective.

Anyway, I suck when it comes to write action scenes and I hope I've made at least a minimally satisfying chapter.

Finally, don't forget to read and review, please.

* * *

**2\. A PERFECT PLAN**

"_All warfare is based on deception. Therefore, when capable, feign incapacity; when active, inactivity. When near, make it appear that you are far away; when far away, that you are near. Offer the enemy a bait to lure him, feign disorder and strike him. When he concentrates, prepare against him; where he is strong avoid him. Anger his general and confuse him. Pretend inferiority and encourage his arrogance. Keep him under strain and wear him down. When he is united, divide him. Attack where he is unprepared; sally out when he does not expect you. These are the strategist's keys to victory. It is not possible to discuss them beforehand." - Sun Tzu, The Art Of War _

_**6 months ago**_

A land cruiser made its way down a cratered dusty road flanked by a set of huge stone mountains. The vehicle jostled over the uneven terrain while racing along the immense, empty landscape devoid of any sign of human presence. Inside it, a pair of militia guarded three hooded men. A third militia member was sitting in the driver's seat. Next to him was a man in his early fifties — Dr. Leonid Pavel — appearing to be anxious and nervous with all that awkward operation.

Being a prestigious and award-winning nuclear physicist had turned Dr. Pavel in a highly disputed professional, not only in his home country but also by other research centers in several parts of the world. Contrary to logic, he remained in Vlatava**(1)** until a civil war had forced him to reevaluate his principles and chose what was safer for his family and for himself.

Around the same time he had been contacted by a dangerous mercenary group whose wish was to hire him to assist them in advanced weaponry production, which he had firmly declined. But no one could say '_no'_ to that kind of people and walk out as if nothing had happened.

So, after contacting a couple of Western Embassies seeking political asylum, Dr. Pavel had found himself in the middle of an intricate extraction scheme. His wife and kids had been sent to some place in northwest Europe, while he was now heading to other destination he had no clue where it was. All of that was very distressing and he was looking forward to finally be in a safe location.

The cruiser sped up a bit just prior reaching a makeshift airstrip. There a bland CIA operative surrounded by a few Special Forces men were standing in front of dark turboprop aircraft, waiting for the rest of the passengers to come. They kept a close eye on the oncoming vehicle as it pulled up sharply, squealing, just a few yards away. The militia men jumped out of it and the driver — who seemed to be their leader — shoved the scared scientist toward the American agent.

"Dr. Pavel?" The man smiled and held out his hand. "I'm CIA." He did not waste time offering his name.

Dr. Pavel nodded nervously and the CIA man handed a leather briefcase over to the driver of the land cruiser, who accepted it eagerly. The briefcase contained more than enough funds to make this risky delivery worth the driver's while.

"We brought something that might interest you," the driver spoke in his thick accent, tilting his head toward the three hooded men behind him, who were handcuffed and appeared to be disoriented.

The CIA agent glanced at them dubiously and then gazed back at the driver, an unspoken question begged to be answered: _Who the hell were those men?_

"They were trying to grab your prize. They work for the mercenary. The masked man," the other man answered with a crooked smile.

"Bane?" the agent asked with a frown.

The driver nodded.

A look of excitement came over the CIA agent's nondescript, unmemorable features. It was time to revise his plans. He turned to his men and ordered, "Get 'em on board." Clearly this was an opportunity he was not about to pass up. He extracted a cell phone from his jacket. "I'll call them in."

Pavel swallowed hard. He did not like the way this was going. He shuddered at the memory of the attempted kidnapping, and at the very mention of his attackers' infamous commander. Bane had become synonymous with atrocities, at least in this part of the world. If had not been the militiamen intervention, this time he would probably be at the mercy of highly dangerous men.

Moments later the commuter plane was struggling over snow-capped mountains. Inside the passenger cabin, the prisoners were escorted toward the cargo door as one of the Special Forces commandos said furiously, "Move!"

His fellows continuously struck the captives until they sank to their knees. The American military stood guard over them as the CIA agent picked up the first captive at random.

"What are you doing in the middle of my operation?" he demanded.

The prisoner kept his mouth shut.

_Ok. It would be my way or the highway_, the American agent thought, pulling out a semiautomatic pistol from beneath his jacket. He opened the cargo door and motioned at the Special Forces guys, who seized the first prisoner and hung him out into the howling wind.

"If you be cooperative then you get to stay on my aircraft," the American agent shouted above the wind. "We know you guys are criminals. The million dollar question here is: Who paid you to grab Dr. Pavel?"

The hooded man remained silent. Angry, the CIA agent fired out the open door and the Special Forces men yanked the prisoner back in, clubbing him quiet.

"He didn't fly so good! Who wants to try next?!"

The whole scene was a psychological torture theater to make the captives believe that CIA had killed a comrade of them.

The soldiers then grabbed the second hooded man and hung him out the door just like the first one.

"Tell me about Bane! Who is he and what does he want with Dr. Pavel?" the agent tried again. "Tell us and we will reduce your sentence."

Only the wind answered him.

Frustrated, the CIA man pressed the gun to the man's head. He cocked the gun… Nothing.

"Lot of loyalty for a hired gun!"

"Or," a muffled voice interrupted, "he's wondering why someone would shoot a man before throwing him out of a plane."

Before shutting the cargo door, the CIA man turned to the third prisoner, puzzled.

"Wiseguy, huh? At least you can talk. Who are you?"

"It doesn't matter who we are. What matters is our plan," the hooded man replied.

Clueless to what was happening outside the cockpit, the pilots carefully checked the computerized screen display that showed the continuous updating data of the flight. The co-pilot glanced at his watch discreetly, seeming to be a bit anxious.

Back to the main cabin, the CIA man warily approached the third prisoner and pulled off his hood, revealing a dark mask with a breathing apparatus. The eyes behind it were cold, not a bit unnerved.

Fascinated, the American agent uttered, "What the hell...?" He was pretty sure of who might be that masked man. This could only be Bane — in flesh and bone. A chill ran down his spine, but he tried not to show it. It was important to remain in control of the interrogation. "Was being caught part of your plan?"

"Of course. Dr. Pavel refused our offer in favor of yours. We had to know what he told you about us."

"Nothing!" the scientist shouted from his seat, sounding completely hysterical. "I said nothing!"

Shaking his head, the CIA agent pursed his lips into a mimicry of a smile. "Well congratulations, you got yourselves caught."

The other Americans found his comment amusing but the sounds of their laughter were drowned out by a heavy bass tone. The unexpected sound penetrated the plane's fuselage, competing with the rumbling of engines. It started to rise in intensity as if something big were approaching them.

And it was in fact. Outside, a second aircraft, many times larger than the small commuter plane, was following it dangerously close.

Alarmed, the Sergeant looked out the window but he was unable to identify the source of sound because the huge white transport plane was now looming over the CIA aircraft. The smaller plane lurched as the noise built up to a tremendous crescendo. He turned to the head of operations, "Sir?"

Oblivious to the Sergeant's warning, the CIA agent continued his interrogation, "What's the next step of your master plan?"

"Crashing this plane..." Bane replied, unperturbed.

Outside, as if on cue, the white plane's rear cargo ramp was lowered and four men dropped down from it, tethered to cables. They reached the commuter plane, two each side.

"... With no survivors." the masked mercenary finished, rising slowly to his feet.

Simultaneously, the Special Forces men reacted to the turbulence from the plane above. An armed man suddenly appeared outside a window, causing one of the guards to get startled. He spun around but not quickly enough.

Shots rang out from opposite directions and glass shattered as the Special Forces men dropped to the floor. Blood and chaos spilled throughout the passenger cabin as the quartet of snipers kept shooting through the windows, hitting their targets with precision accuracy.

The CIA agent's startled gaze darted between Bane and his shot down crew, and then back again. Before him the mercenary got rid of his shackles as if they were made of cheap plastic and, like lightning, cracked his neck, dropping him onto the Sergeant's body.

Meanwhile, the pilot was battling the controls, trying to keep the plane stable. Out of sudden, the rapid dry pop of a semiautomatic weapon rang out from behind him. Almost instantly his head lolled forward and monstrous amounts of blood poured out from the wound on his nape.

With his free hand, the author of the shooting verified if his colleague was unconscious at the controls. He then set the autopilot, inputting numbers to slow the plane and descend, and grabbed a rustic duffel bag. He took his time before getting out just to make sure the shooting was over.

By the time he emerged from the cockpit he ran into an awkward scene where the fallen bodies of the soldiers thronged on the ground like leaves in autumn. He spotted a desperate Dr. Pavel, strapped in his seat belt, pushing against the seat in front of him and softly humming a prayer in his native language.

Staggering, the deceitful co-pilot crossed the cutting wind gusts until he reached Bane.

"Four minutes, chief…" he announced, handing Bane the bag, who quickly distributed its contents to his comrades. Without delay, the four men put their respective parachutes on and prepared for their descent from the perilous plane.

In the meantime, the airborne group started the second phase of the operation by attaching small explosive devices to strategic points on the fuselage. Each had visible timers that were counting down the seconds rapidly. At giving the thumbs up, they were lifted back to the white cargo plane.

Despite the intense vibration of the craft, Bane managed to get close to Dr. Pavel and, taking out a knife, cut the scientist's seat belt. The poor man panicked and tried to get rid of his captor unsuccessfully. As the plane tilted downward a bit, Bane took his arms gently and strapped some kind of harness around the nuclear physicist before connecting it to his own parachutes.

Checking to make sure it was secure, he then moved toward the cargo door where, one by one, the men jumped off.

Before falling into the sky, one of Bane's cronies turned to him gravely, "Have we started the fire?"

Under his mask, Bane answered, "The fire rises."

Evidently that was good enough, for the man finally jumped, followed by Bane, who was attached to a complete frightened Dr. Pavel.

Bane checked his stopwatch, and looked him in the eyes.

"Calm, doctor. Now is not the time for fear... That comes later."

Screaming in utter terror, Pavel barely heard Bane's muffled voice over the roar of the wind, but he definitely heard the explosions that turned every part of the CIA plane into unidentifiable ashes as well as the bodies inside it.

* * *

**(1)** Vlatava is a fictional country in the DC Comics Universe. It's a small eastern European country and a former Soviet republic.

* * *

**Here's a sneak peek from the next chapter:**

_"Jim Gordon," the mayor said, "can tell you the truth about Harvey Dent… So I'll let him tell you himself," she concluded and stepped away from the podium. "Commissioner Gordon?"_

_Another round of applause rose from the assembled partygoers as Gordon approached the mike. He looked down at his long speech, thinking._

_X_X_X__

_"Ever lay eyes on Wayne at one of these things?"_

_"No one has," the former mayor replied. "Not for years."_

_X_X_X__

_"I'm sorry, Miss St. Dumas, but I'm afraid Mr. Wayne is unavailable right now," he informed her apologetically._

_"He has ignored all my attempts to contact him for nearly three years. I'm not delaying this conversation anymore."_

_X_X_X__

_"Take your hands off the lady at once," came a commanding voice from the other end of the long room._

_"And I mean now." The stranger's low-timbered voice was calm but laced with lethal intent. Silently he stepped forward just enough for his face to be fully recognisable._


	3. 3 Illusion

**AN: **Please, read and review.

By the way, Nattie Saint Dumas dress image:** http**[colon][slash][slash]**tinyurl**.**com**[slash]**p45g3u3**

* * *

**3\. ILLUSION**

_"Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one." - Albert Einstein_

_**Present time**_

Very far from the city buzz, a posh party was taking place in the grounds of the freshly rebuilt Wayne Manor. The sound of a small string quartet offered the imperative background for the usual elements of any black-tie function: champagne, tuxedos, expensive jewelry and splendid gowns. From the music to the food to the dress, everything was exquisitely appointed. It was a beautiful fall night, and the weather was perfect.

Through the crowd, the low hum of polite conversation filled the air here and there. Informal discussions about investments, mergers and acquisitions mingled with the latest celebrity gossips or political opinions.

When the music came to a halt, the mayor of Gotham City — Marion Grange — walked over to the middle of the glamorously decorated stage. Good-looking and still a vigorous woman in her late forties, Grange was the former District Attorney who took over as mayor after Anthony Garcia's two terms. The red-haired lady had gained the sympathy of electors by showing a successful image as professional, wife and mother of three boys, committed to continue the government's plan of her predecessor.

Apparently the citizens of Gotham were not willing to give up what they already had for something far less certain. Especially after what the city had suffered at the hands of the clown prince of crime and the events that had led to the last sighting of the Batman, whom had become public enemy number one in the city.

The Dent Act had been launched and it was so effective that organized crime virtually faded away. Mayor Garcia's public popularity had grown so great that he not only had managed to be re-elected, but also had helped to elect the present administration whose party was the same as his.

As Grange addressed the wealthy and powerful of Gotham about Harvey Dent's legacy and heroism, waiters wove through the party, offering fresh drinks and refreshments. An enthusiastic round of applause greeted her words as she wrapped up her speech.

"I want to thank the Wayne Foundation for hosting this event," she continued, humbly accepting the applause. "I'm told Mr. Wayne couldn't be with us tonight, but I'm sure he's with us in spirit."

High above, on a darkened balcony, a lone figure watched everything from afar. Down below at the bar, James Gordon was until that moment reviewing the pages of his speech for this night. However, the mysterious individual did not gone unnoticed by the eyes of the ever watchful Commissioner of Police.

"Now I'm going to give way to an important voice…" the mayor promised, snagging Gordon's attention away from the lonely shadow on the balcony.

The woman gave him a look.

_The time is now_, he thought, swallowing the last of his champagne. For eight years, by default, he had been worshiping a hero with feet of clay. But today he was determined to become public the whole truth. Today the masks would fall out.

As he nervously headed across the party, a well-known voice intruded on his reverie, "Commissioner."

Gordon looked up to see the former mayor Garcia muscling his way toward the bar. He simply nodded politely in response and continued his journey to the stage. While the bartender served a shot of Scotch for Garcia, another man joined him at the bar.

"Ever lay eyes on Wayne at one of these things?"

Garcia turned to Gordon's deputy commissioner, Peter Foley. A man half a decade younger than Gordon that was already making a name for himself downtown.

"No one has," the former mayor replied. "Not in years."

* * *

At the main hall, Alfred Pennyworth — Wayne's faithful butler — was talking to an elegant woman who had attempted to enlist his assistance. Nattie Saint Dumas was a young entrepreneur in her middle thirties and also a member of the board of directors of Wayne Enterprises.

In his many decades of service, Alfred had never crossed paths in the grounds of the manor with a woman as beautiful as intelligent like Miss St. Dumas. Her appearance was one of lean, catlike elegance. Lustrous dark hair framed a classically beautiful face. Her striking eyes were somewhere between blue and gray, like the sea during a storm. Her smooth and controlled voice held a faint accent that, despite his extensive travels throughout the globe, he could not quite place.

"I'm sorry, Miss St. Dumas, but I'm afraid Mr. Wayne is unavailable right now," he informed her apologetically.

Nattie reached out and touched his arm, her eyes narrowed, her voice pleading for understanding, "Please, it's important, Mr. Pennyworth."

Alfred stared at the woman feeling a bit sorry for her because his employer was as determined to ignore important things as trivial ones lately. He glanced at where she touched him and covered her hand with his own.

"I'm under strict orders not to bother him. Mind you, Mr. Wayne has not been much social these days," he replied wryly. "Maybe you should set up an appointment— "

"I'm not setting up an appointment," she cut him off, stepping back. Her eyes shone with determination. "He has ignored all my attempts to contact him for nearly three years. I'm not delaying this conversation anymore."

Alfred let loose a defeated sigh.

"Very well then, I see what I can do. You may wait in that room at the end of the hall," the butler offered, pointing Nattie toward one of the many living rooms the mansion had. "I don't promise anything."

She gave him a small grateful smile. "Thank you very much, Mr. Pennyworth."

As he trudged toward the East Wing, she proceed to follow his instructions, both unaware that they were being watched from gloomy corners by someone lurking in the shadows.

* * *

Marion Grange's voice continued from the podium.

"He can tell you about the bad old days," she said, apparently in no hurry to surrender the spotlight. "When the criminals and the corrupt ran this town with such a tight grasp that people put their faith in a murderous thug in a mask and cape. A thug who showed his true nature when he betrayed the trust of this great man." She turned toward the large color portrait of Dent that stood behind her. "And murdered him in cold blood."

"Jim Gordon," the mayor said, "can tell you the truth about Harvey Dent… So I'll let him tell you himself," she concluded and stepped away from the podium. "Commissioner Gordon?"

Another round of applause rose from the assembled partygoers as Gordon approached the mike. He looked down at his long speech, thinking.

"The truth..." Gordon began. Unwanted, an ugly memory flashed before his mind's eye. Harvey Dent, whose face was half destroyed, threatening his son with a handgun.

He surveyed the audience, trying to decide. The truth was he had no option but to continue this charade until heaven knows when.

"I have written a speech telling the truth about Harvey Dent…" he made a brief pause, folding up his speech. "Maybe the time isn't right…" He stuffed the papers inside his jacket, and continued with the same tone he had been adopting in his speeches about Harvey Dent for the last eight years.

The crowd clapped enthusiastically — all except for the figure on the balcony, who silently turned away and disappeared into the upper reaches of the mansion. Watching him out of the corner of his eye, Gordon saw him vanish.

* * *

The large, old fashioned and functional kitchen exhibited an orderly chaos as the extra servants worked feverishly to make sure everyone was replete with both food and drink. Several members of the catering staff set on for the day flowed through the area, bearing trays and trenchers while the staff manager coordinated everything, taking extra care to remind them to not use the main stair — a prerogative of the manor's owner.

In the midst of all hustle and bustle, a trio of maids were filling a new round of trays and chit-chatting.

"They say he never leaves the East Wing," one of them — a tall blonde woman — said almost in a whisper, looking around anxiously to see that the staff manager did not overhear.

"I heard he had an accident years ago and got disfigured as a result," another one — a slender dark haired lady — pointed out.

"Don't you know? He suffers from a disease that severely deformed his face. I guess it's syphilis or something like that," added the most petite of them all, who had been quiet up to this point.

The other two scowled in horror.

"Guess someone's paying the price for being a playboy," the tall blonde murmured, shaking her head.

"Ladies, more work, less talk," the chef in charge ordered, startling them all. They immediately shut up and continued their chores silently.

* * *

Minutes later, Nattie found herself waiting in a luxurious and spacious study filled with expensive furniture, antiques and heirlooms. Looking around, she concluded the room was like every inch of the rest of that sterile mansion, void of any hint of warmness, bleak and soulless like its homeowner.

A weary sigh escaped her lips as she recalled the reason why she was there. A stubborn associate who seemed determined to avoid her every attempt to speak with him over the past three years.

_Not tonight, mister!_

Nattie had always thought of herself being about ten times more emotionally stable than the average person, but if she had to spend one more day being made a fool of by the eccentric billionaire, she was going to create a stink. One way or another, she would get a reaction from him.

Feeling restless, she took a moment to explore her surroundings. A set of framed photos, some noticeably singed around the edges, drew her attention, for it was the only thing that made the place to resemble a real home.

She could recognize the deceased Thomas and Martha Wayne, tragically murdered more than three decades ago. A third frame held a portrait of an attractive brunette. Nattie realized this was Rachel Dawes — Harvey Dent's dead girlfriend. She guessed that that particularly woman held a place of honor not only upon that table but also at Bruce Wayne's heart.

She ran her fingers over the gilded frames before eyeing something totally unexpected in one corner of the room — a full-sized archery target mounted to a large wooden cabinet, having at least half a dozen of arrows stuck in it. Intrigued, she reached out to inspect one of them but a male voice caused her to hold back.

"You know why the absolutely filthy rich are so odd? Because they can afford to be."

Nattie turned to see John Daggett, the president of Daggett Industries, entering the room with a glass in hand. He walked till he was almost beside her.

"You speak of yourself, surely." Her voice held a tiny hint of derision.

"Waiting for an audience with Your Majesty?" he asked, not missing the opportunity for a playful jibe.

Resisting the urge to tell him this was none of his business, she replied coolly, "A private one, if you do allow it."

He chuckled, moving closer to her. His eyes, studying her, were cool, deliberate.

"Why waste your time trying to talk to the man who threw away your investment on some save-the-world vanity project? He can't help you get your money back." He paused to take a sip of his drink and then added with mischievous grin, "But I can."

"I could try explaining that a save-the-world project, vain or not, is worth investing in, whatever the return. I could try, Mr. Daggett, but you understand only money and the power you think it buys, so why waste my time, indeed," she snapped with a smirk, wishing that this night was already over so she could be free of dealing with people like Daggett — greedy and vulgar.

When she intended to spin about, he managed to grab her arm fiercely, stopping her to go any further.

"You silly snub woman! You're merely another hoe wanting the chance to get into Wayne's pants," he spat, not the slightest bit concerned that he might be overheard.

Judging from the man's slurred speech and ethylic breath, Nattie assumed that Daggett had already tossed back much more drinks than he could handle. With an involuntary shudder of disgust at his audacity, she looked at him and said sternly, "Let go or you'll regret this."

He tightened his grip even firmer as she tried to jerk away from him. The initial anger that had seized her fed her energy, but before she could knock him down the way he deserved, the whizzing sound of an arrow through the air followed by the distinct noise of breaking glass startled both of them.

"Take your hands off the lady at once," came a commanding voice from the other end of the long room.

The hair on Nattie's neck stood up as her gaze flicked between the broken pieces of Daggett's glass scattered on the floor and the source of the voice.

"And I mean now." The stranger's low-timbered voice was calm but laced with lethal intent.

Silently he stepped forward just enough for his features to be fully recognisable. His face was gaunt and drawn. Dark circles haunted his eyes. Traces of gray had infiltrated the dark hair at his temples. A rumpled silk dressing gown was draped over his slumped shoulders. His slippered feet padded noiselessly across the floor. It was Bruce Wayne, holding a composite bow, pointing directly toward John Daggett.

The unexpected intercessor made Nattie's knees wobbly.

"Or what?" Daggett snarled. His grip tightened.

Wayne's eyes blazed. "Or the next will be for you."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	4. 4 Unfinished Business

**AN:** Please, read and review.

* * *

**4\. UNFINISHED BUSINESS**

"_Unfinished business always come back to haunt you." - Alice Hoffman_

Bruce Wayne, playboy of Gotham, with inexhaustible wealth, had become the Howard Hughes of this century.

For more than three years, he had vanished from public life. The media made all attempts to fill in the gaping blanks in the meaning of his absence. Some of them claimed that the Wayne heir's mental aberrations were rooted in his parents' violent deaths. Others insisted it was a former lover, either female or male, who had jilted the unbalanced Wayne.

Fact was his disappearance for no apparent reason made all kinds of rumor and urban legends arose to circulate. It all added to the mystery and never approached the truth. In the final analysis, no one knew absolutely anything about Bruce.

But now, here he was, threateningly standing tall in the middle of this room, catching his guests complete off guard.

John Daggett hesitated for just one second before reluctantly doing as he was bidden. "What a pleasant surprise," he stated, his voice tinged with sarcasm. "How've you been holding up?"

Bruce lowered the composite bow and picked up his wooden cane. He straightened to an arrogant height.

"With a cane," he said gruffly.

A low rumble filled the room in response, a perverse, distorted laugh.

"No long nails... Or facial scars… Isn't this amazing, Natalia?"

Both men turned to look at Nattie, whose glare traveled back and forth between them. She blinked as if coming out of a trance and opened and closed her mouth, trying to speak, but she seemed so amazed to finally see living and breathing Wayne that the words did not come out.

He limped towards her, favoring his injured left leg.

"Are you all right?" he asked curtly.

Nattie forced herself to meet his eyes, and found nothing there. No warmth, no alarm, no amazement, no recognition. Nothing. He just wore the strained look of someone who had been enduring severe pain — mental or physical — for a very long time. So she merely nodded.

He swung around as rapidly as his injured leg allowed to face Daggett again. "Now you better hit the road before I call security."

A scornful laugh escaped from Daggett. He glanced around, eyes glinting with amusement. "And by security, you mean that old butler of yours?"

"Meaning a small army of private guards and cops. They're just out there and they'll be here in a blink. The Dent Act is about all Gotham. Even you, Mr. Daggett," Bruce replied, his voice murderously quiet. He was about six seconds away from losing his temper, something he never, never allowed to happen. At least not in his socialite persona.

Having the audacity to chuckle at Bruce's tone, Daggett held up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender and backed slowly out of the room, saying, "Well, well, I'm not looking for trouble." Casting a glance at St. Dumas direction, he added, "Just remember my dear: every Achilles has his heel."

As soon as he was gone, Nattie cautiously stepped away from the shattered glass around her feet, assessing the spills of champagne on her dress, the couch and carpet. Miraculously no one had been injured.

"I'm sorry," she offered gravely with a hint of an exotic accent. "I guess he had followed me."

"You shouldn't apologize for somebody else's actions or wrong doings." Bruce sized her up with a look. "Miss Saint Dumas, isn't it? Mr. Fox spoke quite highly of you."

"Mr. Wayne, it's a pleasure to finally meet you." She extended her hand to shake his, but he did not returned the gesture, merely staring at it. His mouth remained firmly pressed into an unyielding line.

She lifted her chin, suddenly aware of the hostile direction the meeting was headed. Keeping her composure, she struggled not to back away — or move closer still.

"I think we have a lot to catch up on," she said gently.

"What do you have against a phone call?" he asked, his voice like cut glass.

"Me? Nothing. But since you're so determined not to answer any of my phone calls, I felt a face-to-face meeting was my best shot."

"If you came here to try to convince me into reactivating the clean-energy project, then you're just wasting your time." He held her gaze. "The decision has been made"

"It wasn't your call to make."

"You don't understand," he grumbled, shaking his head slightly.

"Then enlighten me!"

He dragged in a breath. "Look, sometimes the investment doesn't pay off. Sorry."

She stepped forward slightly.

"You have a practiced apathy, Mr. Wayne. But a man who doesn't care about the world doesn't spend half his fortune on a plan to save it. And isn't so wounded when it fails that he goes into hiding," she spoke impulsively, annoyed to recognize his antipathy toward her and longing for taunting him.

The silence that followed seethed and sizzled.

"Are you quite finished?" Polar ice would have been warmer than that ground-out question.

"I've got only one more thing to say." She breathed unsteadily. "You should start paying more attention to what's happening beyond the walls of your fortress," she said, pointing towards the outside window, "before it's too late. Have a good night, Mr. Wayne."

She immediately turned away and stormed across the room as Bruce watched her go. Relief and disappointment warred inside him, but neither won.

* * *

Nattie St. Dumas had been gone for five minutes, but Bruce still felt her presence in the room.

He never set his eyes on her and did not expect their first meeting had such an impact on him. And judging from the bewildered way she had looked at him this night, he suspected the reverse was true too.

Probably the young executive did not anticipate to run into someone with those unearthly pale eyes sunk into a face that was a mere shadow of the handsome man that once had appeared on the cover of magazines.

For his part, Bruce had imagined Miss St. Dumas as an older, dour woman, seeking to corner him — perhaps even as a female version of men like John Daggett.

She was a good and intelligent businesswoman, of that he was sure. But she was more than that. She was beautiful. Utterly gorgeous. Her wide blue-gray eyes had caught his attention first. Her full mouth, slightly parted, was just begging to be kissed. Her gown clung lovingly to soft, rounded breasts with just a hint of cleavage to taunt him, but it was something else, something he could not define, something fierce and elemental that drew him to her. It was both frightening and tempting at the same time. He felt an almost tangible energy coming from her, something he had not experienced in years.

After Rachel died, he had no interest in finding another woman. He had thought the sexual part of him was dead, too, but apparently it had been merely dormant, waiting for the right opportunity.

His mind and emotions raged as he tore his hand through his hair. He had to get a grip. If he had any sense, he would keep away from a woman like that. He liked control — and there was something very uncontrolled about his reaction to her.

Her words still kept echoing in Bruce's mind. He felt as if his own mask had slipped. She was clearly a woman to be reckoned with. He would definitely have to be on guard around her.

* * *

Very far from the wealthy suburb of Palisades, beneath the surface of the old downtown area, eighteen years old Danny Hirsch stood sweating on the platform of an abandoned subway station. A single work light remained, shining down on his face. He was scared to death, eyes wide. The rapid, erratic sound of his heartbeat was pounding in his ears. It was the sound of fear.

Danny was just one of the many kids recruited by a clandestine cell structure that moved through the sewers. With promises of a better life, the group performed a series of shady construction projects on Gotham undergrounds. The great majority of them did not know the real reason behind these constructions, but at least everyone had shelter, food and some money in exchange for their services.

They were expected to follow a training routine and a strict code of conduct. But the night before, Danny had broken that code and now he needed to be punished. He must serve as an example.

Tremulant, he turned slowly and faced his pursuers — two big guys — as they approached and encircled him.

"You screw it up," one of them said.

Danny looked at them with pleading eyes. "God damn, it wasn't even my fault." There was a quiver in his voice.

The second goon grimaced and hit him in the gut. Danny dropped to the ground, gasping for breath. He was on his hands and knees, trying to stand, when the other thug kicked him in the chest.

"What now?" guy number two asked to number one.

"Now, we shoot," thug number one answered, taking a handgun from his belt. He pointed it at Danny as the young man writhed on the ground.

Thug number two smiled perversely as the other crooks gathered up.

Guy number one stood above Danny and said, "This ends here. Goodbye, my friend."

"Wait!" shouted Danny, desperate. "Please!" Everyone paused for a beat.

Number one shook his head and said, "Fine. Get the hell outta here."

Both thugs watched him slowly recovering and then exchanged glances. Silence stretched among all of them.

Gathering his breath, Danny got to his feet. Ignoring the pain, he tried to run as fast as his injured body allowed. However, before he could put a distance any longer than five yards, thug number two pulled out a gun and shoot. Once, twice, three times.

Gasping, the lad fell like a sack of potatoes on the ground as darkness enfolded him.

Barsad — Bane's main lieutenant — approached the two thugs, studying the situation. The loyal soldier had fought beside the masked mercenary in so many conflicts over the years, all around the world. He owed Bane his life a dozen times over.

"Get rid of his body," he said with a strong accent. "Now." _Before you guys cause any more trouble_, were the unspoken words .

As soon as his command was fulfilled, Barsad saw his boss standing at the top of a rusty staircase — everyone in that tunnel saw him enter, in fact.

The mercenary quickly jumped, catlike, from the top of the stairs and landed in a crouch, safely in their midst. They gathered round, expectantly.

He stepped forward and held up a hand to get their attention. "Brothers!" the odd, lilting voice called authoritatively. "Centuries had past but our order has remained steadfast in its secret mission of preserve the balance of the world. Yet, underneath all advance conquered the old struggle endures. Together, we'll not only restore the balance, we'll make history. Soon we will confront the powerful people of this city on how they ever thought they could live so large and leave so little to the rest of us."

The place shook with a roar of applause and shouting.

"You think Bane's crazy? Take over a whole town?" one of the youngest crooks practically whispered to another.

"I know he's crazy. I don't know what he's got planned, but whatever it is, I'm in," the other guy replied.

Whatever it was exactly Bane had in mind, his underground army knew the time had come. He had finally decided not to lay low anymore.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	5. 5 Are You Watching Closely?

**AN:** Please, don't forget to read and review.

* * *

**5\. ARE YOU WATCHING CLOSELY?**

_"Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools." - William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury_

Commissioner James Gordon did not bother to stay any longer than necessary at the party. As soon as he finished his speech, he got back to the police headquarters.

There were few people around there tonight. One of them was Lieutenant Sarah Essen, sitting in one of the adjoining desks, shuffling endless amounts of paperwork in front of her. Twelve years Gordon's junior, Sarah was a beautiful blonde with classic features and striking emerald eyes, who had been recently transferred from Chicago. Besides being utterly beautiful, she was a very smart woman with a fun-loving personality that did not go unnoticed to Jim.

But he felt as though she was far and away out of his league. Furthermore, still recovering from a bitter divorce, he had not the slightest desire to enter a romantic relationship again, especially now that Barbara II was living under his roof.

"Good evening, Lieutenant Essen," he saluted while passing by her desk.

She looked up. A warm smile on her face.

"Hello, Commish. Hey, how was the gala?"

"Boring as usual," he said with a shrug. "The second shift reports in?"

"Right here."

"Thanks." Without further ado, he snatched the paperwork up from Sarah's desk and backed out of the office.

"Anyone has shown him the crime stats?" Essen asked Mackenzie _'Hardback'_ Bock — Chief of Police — as he walked over to her desk with a cup of coffee in his hand. "When he and Dent cleaned up the streets, they cleaned them up good. Pretty soon we'll be chasing overdue library books."

Bock chuckled. "He goes by his gut, and it continues to bother him, whatever the numbers."

"A workaholic — that's what he is. This can hardly be good for his health."

He took a sip of his coffee and added, "Or for his personal life. No wonder the wife took the kids and moved to Cleveland."

"But what about the girl I saw the other day? Barbara, isn't it?"

"Little Babs chose to live with her father again, here in Gotham. She's a hard nut to crack."

"Chip off the old block, hmm."

They shared a smile before returning to their duties.

* * *

At around ten p.m., an official of the DWP was making his nightly rounds through the northern section of the sewage treatment facility.

The sewage treatment plant was on the outskirts of Gotham, near the river. Thick pipes and other conduits linked various tanks, pumps, and basins. The whole complex was intended to purify the fetid output of Gotham's sewers before discharging the excess effluent into the river.

When inspecting a long concrete trough filled with foul-looking water, something caught the official's attention — a shadow next to one of the several discharge outlets. At first he took it for an injured animal. But after a few seconds the shadow slowly took shape in the semi-darkness, and the man realized it was a body. A dead person. It was facedown in the water.

"Holy—"

Used to the characteristic strong odor of chemicals mixed with the smell of sewage sludge, the man did not bother to get closer to the lifeless body and kneeled over it. Alarmed, he reached for his walkie-talkie.

"We got a situation down here," he said. "Call the cops"

* * *

Gordon stood on the rooftops of police headquarters ready to begin examining a stack of files methodically. This particular place had been elected as his personal refuge, where he could actually concentrate without being interrupted by all bureaucracy and nuisance that came with the job.

On clear nights like this one, he liked to enjoy the spectacular view offered by the roof. For a brief moment, his gaze fixed on the bright lights of the city. It was so intoxicatingly beautiful but also punctuated by a deceptive innocence. Although those were times of peace, experience had taught Gordon to never let his guard down, and his instincts were telling him that there was always a calm before every storm. Crime never slept, so he could not afford to, either.

Especially now that he didn't have a certain Dark Knight backing him up.

Batman had been hailed as a valiant citizen by most people of the city when he first arrived. But then all hell broke loose and he became Gotham's most-wanted criminal.

Jim glanced nostalgically at the rusty, broken searchlight, remembering that the fulfillment of his duty to serve and protect had cost him his family, his marriage and almost the life of his son.

"Commissioner?" Peter Foley's voice interrupted Gordon's reverie. He turned towards him, realizing the other man held a concerned look on his face.

"Hey, shouldn't you be enjoying a party?" he asked with a light touch.

"Oh, I'm done with that political crap. I've just stopped by for a quick look and…" Foley paused, as if looking for the right words.

"Anything wrong?"

"A guy from the sewage treatment plan has been calling. A body was found at a sewage effluent," Foley said. "Just thought you might like to know."

Gordon took the news with surprise. The night seemed so calm…

"It's the third in less than two months. Detectives MacDonald and Driver headed up to there along a CSI team," the deputy Commissioner added.

The older policeman pushed up his glasses just enough to pinch his nose at the bridge with his eyes in a clear sign of fatigue.

"Very well. Thanks for the heads-up. I'll be down in a minute."

Peter looked at Gordon's stack of files and prior to turn and walk away, he said with a little bit of hesitation, "It's that night. This night, eight years ago. The night Dent died."

"What about it?" Gordon asked nonchalant.

"The last confirmed sighting of the Batman. He murders those people, takes out two SWAT teams, breaks Dent's neck… then just vanishes?"

"Where you're going with this, Peter?"

Foley shifted uneasily. Then looked at Gordon. There was an issue that had been bugging the hell out of him for quite a while.

"Mayor Garcia took a hard stance against Batman years ago, announcing he was forming a police task force to apprehend him and assigning you to head it. Specialists and forensic psychiatrists were hired to draw the profile of his real identity, but you declared it was a dead-end and convinced the mayor to not spend taxpayers' money with that," he paused. "Don't you want to know who he was?" he asked.

Gordon turned to look at the broken searchlight. He brushed his fingers across its rusted shell.

"The truth is I've never cared who he was," he stated and turned to Foley. He knew he was probably treading on thin ice here, yet he dared to get a few things out of his chest for a moment. "In fact, I haven't even wanted to know who he was."

Stunned, Foley blinked rapidly. "Why not?"

"'Cause I came to realize it didn't matter," he answered, quickly changing the subject to refrain himself from revealing too much. "Now, let's go and see what Patton and MacDonald found out."

He walked past Foley and headed for the stairs, clearly putting an end to that conversation.

* * *

Later, Commissioner Gordon, Detectives Josephine_ 'Josie Mac'_ MacDonald and Marcus Driver met the coroner's assistant at the autopsy lab.

"When will the autopsy be done?" Gordon inquired of the coroner's assistant.

"The physical pathology will be done by tomorrow. The lab work might take another day. As for the ballistics, who knows?"

MacDonald and Driver were intently looking over the lifeless body of a teenager boy that was laying on the metal slab while Gordon picked up his file.

"What do we have here guys?"

"Name's Danny," MacDonald began. "Daniel Hirsch, eighteen, fresh out of the St. Swithin's, a home for orphan boys. Worked in construction sector under some kind of First Job programme maintained by a non-profit foundation."

_Oh crap_, Gordon thought. He was just a boy.

"Just like the other teenager whose corpse was found few weeks ago. Except that this one was found with three shots," Driver added.

"Witnesses?" Gordon asked extremely calm, as he always did when he was furious.

"Nobody saw a thing aside from the DWP guy who found out the body. But he didn't touch him. According to the same person, some people have been searching for an inn in the tunnels. More when it gets colder. Most of them are homeless," the male detective stated.

"Father Reilly, the priest in charge of St. Swithin's said Danny hasn't shown up there for months, even though he has a brother still living there," MacDonald declared while she was reviewing her notes. "Mark is his name."

Silence took over the chilly room until Driver decided to break it, "Any ideas, Commissioner?"

Gordon scratched his head.

"A few. Three young men found dead in a sewage treatment plant in less than two months? It's too much to believe it's a mere coincidence…"

After wrapping things up with the other cops Gordon got in his car and remembered the case of Cardinal O'Fallon's kidnapping. Homeless people were living in the city undergrounds. At that time he was helped by his dark ally. Feeling sick to his stomach, Gordon decided his shift was over.

* * *

It was well past midnight when Gordon got home. He stepped into the entrance hall of his small apartment, removed his coat, placed his handgun over the wood sideboard, then entered the kitchen.

There was a note on the kitchen table saying, _"Late night snack in the oven."_

_Barbara_, Jim thought with a grin.

He quietly tiptoed to the guest room, where he knew his daughter would be asleep. The door was ajar; he pushed it gently open and saw the thirteen year old girl sleeping peacefully. He sat on the edge of the bed and gazed down at her adoringly, recalling how firm the girl had been in her decision to not going back to Cleveland.

Last summer, the kids had come to spend part of their vacation with Jim. James Jr. had become a great looking fifteen year old, very passionate about sports and popular around the chicks. Whereas Barbara Louise was more the geek kind of gal, an image arguably emphasized by thick, pink rimmed glasses she proudly flaunted.

When it had been time to leave, Babs expressed her intent of staying in Gotham at her father's side. With an argumentative power that was far beyond her tender age, she had succeeded in convincing both parents to take on her wish. Even though Barbara Senior allowed her youngest child to live away from her, she had done it with her heart dragging painfully.

Gordon knew that mother and daughter were suffering from being apart, but a tiny part of his mind — the selfish side — was foolishly grateful that at least one of his offspring care about him enough to leave it all behind and move in with him.

With a sigh Gordon stood up and left the bedroom of the child he adored and turned his thoughts to the recent events in the GCPD. Certainly a busy day was waiting for him in the next morning.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	6. 6 Is There Something I Should Know?

**AN:**_ Read and review, please._

_For those that were missing Bruce and Nattie, both of them are gonna show up in this chapter. Later on, the chapters will focus almost exclusively on them two. However, I cannot fail to narrate what happens around Gotham and the reasons why Bruce will don the mask and suit again._

_Nattie's fashion style can be viewed at:_ ** http** : **/ / tinyurl**.**com** **/ kf2yy5a **_(without spaces).**  
**_

* * *

**6\. IS THERE SOMETHING I SHOULD KNOW?**

"_There is a moment in every day when it is difficult to see clearly: evening time. Light and darkness blend, and nothing is completely clear nor completely dark." - Paulo Coelho, Maktub_

The following morning after the party Alfred made his regular trip to the East Wing of Wayne's ancestral home, bearing a tray with his employer's breakfast. When he entered the master bedroom, he came across an empty bed. In fact, it appeared as if it had not been slept in at all.

"Master Wayne?"

As his voice echoed through the vast mansion, he scanned nearly the whole of Bruce's private quarters. There was no reply. No sign of life.

That was strange. He looked a bit confused and then concluded that Bruce must have been at the only other place in that immense house he used to go — although it had been many months since he had ventured down there.

He then went to a grandfather clock in the study and set the hands at 10:47: the exact hour and minute the watch on Dr. Thomas Wayne's wrist had shown when he had fallen with a bullet in his chest on that night over thirty years ago. The clock pivoted on hidden hinges, revealing a secret elevator. He stepped in and typed in a code as the clock swung closed behind him.

While descending towards the huge cavern beneath the manor, Alfred wondered what might have prompted Bruce to go down there after so much time.

As soon as the elevator's door opened, he walked quickly through a long arched corridor with columns until the stone floor started to get lower, becoming a ramp. At the bottom, Alfred was leveled with a platform walkway over the water, which made connection to a kind of central hub. He spotted Bruce sitting there in front of one of the most highly advanced computer hardware systems in the entire world. He seemed too focused to pay attention to his old butler approaching.

"Would you care for some breakfast?" Alfred asked, placing Bruce's usual breakfast of orange juice, multigrain cereal with berries, and yogurt in front of him.

"Sure. Thanks," Bruce replied without taking his eyes from the set of hi-definition flat screens.

Alfred noticed Bruce was running the O.R.A.C.L.E.**(1)**, which stood for Observation, Research, and Covert Logistics Engine. It was a sophisticated and ultramodern database server that aided Bruce in nearly anything he needed. It was underhand connected to every available intelligence database in the planet and also ran the cave's defenses as well as those of Wayne Manor.

"You haven't been down here in a long time…" the butler observed warily.

"Just trying to figure out more about someone," Bruce said while hitting a few keys on the keyboard. Next, Natalia Saint Dumas' profile showed up on the screen.

Alfred raised his eyebrows at the sight of the image. "Ms. St. Dumas? I've found her quite lovely."

So did Bruce but he would not admit it even to himself, and surely not to his butler.

"And very persistent," Bruce said pointedly as he swiveled his chair to finally face the older man.

Alfred let out a wicked grin. "Well, I think she has the right to do so, doesn't she?"

Bruce grimaced. For many years, he pretended Natalia St. Dumas did not exist and, if she did not exist, then neither did the problems that came along with her. By choosing to ignore her as best he could, Bruce believed his own failings would remain buried. He knew his logic was foolish and things did not actually work that way. Yet he expected the obscene amount of money he paid Fox was enough for him to handle this kind of hot potato.

However the latest developments demonstrated that keeping his distance was no longer an option.

"Those shares assigned to her were supposed to be enough to keep her out my hair," he said.

"Have you discovered anything out of ordinary about her?"

Upon Alfred's question, Bruce hit a key and a montage of photos, official records and newspaper headlines flashed across the screen. Documents showed that a very young Natalia had been sent to an orphanage maintained by the Sacred Order of Saint Dumas in Switzerland. It seemed she had adopted her surname in a clear reference to the place that had acted as her home during her child years. Most likely she was one of the many orphans who ignored their own family name.

An official statement issued to her business partners said that she had attended ETH Zürich, then completed her MBA at London Business School. She had started off as an intern in a Swiss investment bank until being transferred to the branch office in London as a junior investment manager. Some time later, she took the position of vice president of mergers and acquisitions at LuthorCorp's European HQ in Brussels.

"She became an orphan at four; grew up in a Catholic Orphanage in the Swiss Alps; attended top European schools; took excellent positions in prestigious financial institutions; married Belgian pharmaceutical tycoon Pierre de L'Arbre; became a widow at twenty-five, little over a year after their marriage," Bruce summarized all info that popped up over the screen. He zoomed in a small newspaper note reporting L'Arbre's death. He died when his private jet crashed in the Pyrénées mountains, en route to Madrid.

"Plane crash. How horrible!" Alfred exclaimed in dismay.

"Yep. After his death, she got back to Switzerland and started off her own company," Bruce said with a shrug. He picked up the juice and took a sip before adding with an almost imperceptible hint of admiration in his voice, "TELOS Holdings."

According to the small dossier Fox had handed Bruce years ago, TELOS was a private equity investment group that funded sustainable projects and provided resources for the development of green technologies, which should improve the quality of life in developing countries and emerging markets.

Pennyworth turned to Bruce in order to meet his eyes. "Very impressive, still, nothing whimsical by my standards. But why do I sense that your questions haven't stopped yet."

Because something was wrong with Bruce's picture of her. The pieces of the puzzle did not fit. His detective's instincts were telling him that woman was not exactly who she claimed to be. Or perhaps, so many years dealing with people with hazy facades had left him a bit paranoid.

"Not a lot of people show their real face in public," he pointed out.

"So apart from the fact that she started out with nothing but her keen intelligence, sounds like you two have a lot in common," Alfred remarked with a chuckle.

Wayne frowned, looking slightly annoyed. "I know what you're trying to get at, Alfred, and I'm not going along with it."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Alfred answered in his most professional voice, his face expressionless.

"Oh, I think you do," Bruce replied tightly as a discreet ironic grin flitted across the corners of his mouth. "You're trying to set me up with the merry widow."

"At this point, sir, I would set you up with a chimpanzee if I thought it would bring you back into the world."

Bruce's expression darkened. Any trace of levity vanished from his voice.

"There's nothing out there for me," he practically grumbled.

For eight years, he had been living in the shadow of guilt. Ever since Rachel's death, he had never let anyone get too close again. She had been the only woman Bruce had ever truly cared for — until the Joker cruelly ended her life. Although each year the pain lessened a little more, thus it was that things should remain.

"And that's the problem," Alfred said, hoping he could get through for once. "You've been living like a zombie. A Flying Dutchman. A dead man, eight years dead... "

Bruce did not deny it. He just sat silently at the computer.

"Remember when you left Gotham?" Alfred persisted. "Before all this. Before Batman. Seven years you were gone. Seven years I waited. Hoping for any sign that you were alive and kicking. Every time the mail came I prayed that there was a letter from you. I'd appreciate even just a postcard with nothing on it. It would have been enough to make me believe that you'd made it. That you'd have finally found piece."

For years, Alfred nourish vain hopes for that one day Bruce could make peace with the past and would finally stop suffering and move on. Wayne knew, Alfred believed, that Alfred was the closest thing he had to a father. He never quite realized that he was the closest thing Alfred had to a son.

Bruce looked up in surprise. A mix of confusion and realization showed upon his face.

"I know you better than almost anyone," the butler continued. "I know that you think that you don't deserve to be happy, but you're wrong. We all lose someone we love at some point. That's part of living. Luckily there is always a silver lining attached to every dark cloud."

Bruce was feeling drained right now. Were it by so long his situation had been going on, or by the memories that their conversation had brought for him, he could no longer support the weight of the burden that befell him.

"I'm sorry… but I really don't think there's any point in discussing it. What can it possibly achieve? And as much as that might bother you and inconvenience us both, let's leave it at that, shall we?" he offered, trying to put an end to that conversation.

Alfred clearly understood the message. He switched into super polite mode, the one he used when he wished to emphasize his role in that house.

"Fine then. Do you need anything else that require my assistance?"

"No, thank you."

"Very well, sir." Alfred acknowledged his words with a nod and then turned to leave.

Bruce sighed. "Alfred? I thought I told you to lose all that yes, sir, no sir crap."

The servant turned one last time and said, "I'm just showing respect, sir."

There was nothing more to say. He exited the cave, leaving Bruce alone with his obsessions — and the ceaseless rustling of the bats.

* * *

_Respect. _

Alfred's words echoed in Bruce's mind as he ate his breakfast.

The old Englishman had been with him from the beginning. Every relationship has its strains. He and Alfred had been through it all together for as long as Bruce could remember. Sometimes it was easy and sometimes it was hard. Of late, the warm relationship between the servant/ legal guardian and the employer/ ward had cooled somewhat and the silences between them had lengthened. Even so, at any moment Bruce had doubts about Alfred's loyalty and commitment.

Alfred's trust and respect. Those were two things Bruce never wanted to be without.

Shaking his head, he quickly put aside those thoughts and turned his attention back to the computer screen. He zoomed in a image of Nattie's face on the cover of a famous weekly news magazine. '_The ice queen'_, the publication had dubbed her in the article, endeavouring to penetrate the mystique of a rogue among the more conventional herd of the hugely successful.

Another business magazine had highlighted that Ms. St. Dumas was now reputedly one of the top ten influential business women in the world. At mid thirties, this was a striking position. Especially for someone who had started out with nothing but formidable intelligence. Well, not exactly out with nothing. There was the all the money left by her husband after his death.

Even though she apparently had the best of intentions, Bruce was still trying to make up his mind if Nattie was an opportunist who cared only about making money or not. Even after the massive digging on about her life — which resulted in no awkward fact or clouded secrets — he could not help a little voice in his head kept whispering that there was definitely something wrong about Natalia St. Dumas.

How was it possible to know so much about a woman, and yet not know anything about her? He looked again at her picture, easily becoming trapped by the allure of her eyes.

And he felt something he thought it had been deeply buried inside of him for a long time.

Excitement.

_Shit._

* * *

Wayne Enterprises occupied a gleaming glass-and-steel skyscraper in Gotham's Financial District. On the top floor of the tower, the conference room was filled with suit-clad professionals seated around an oblong mahogany table. File folders were open in front of them and they were analyzing a range of pie charts and bar graphs. They had been in full session for over an hour.

Wearing an expensive business suit, industrialist and construction mogul John Daggett addressed the board without getting up, "As one of shareholders in this corporation I'd like to propose that we must lead our efforts and investments to sectors that really provide substantial profit for the company. The last annual reports have shown that many divisions has had scandalous losses. I believe they should be shut down."

The other executives exchanged uncomfortable glances in the face of his suggestion. That was not the perfect solution, but in view of the financial crisis the company was going through, maybe it was the right one.

"Such divisions employ thousands of workers," Douglas Fredericks, one of the board's senior members, protested. Wayne Enterprises had employment positions spread throughout the world. Sudden mass dismissal would definitely produce an unprecedented chain reaction. For Fredericks, Daggett and his allies must see the forest and not just the trees.

"Wayne Enterprises is not a charitable organization," Daggett retorted from his side of the table, appearing even more arrogant than usual.

"If we don't take immediate and drastic steps, then there would be no more jobs to save. Including yours, Fredericks," Derek Powers — the head of Powers Technology and also a shareholder of Wayne Enterprises — said, sending a glare toward Fredericks.

"I think we should consult Mr. Wayne first and—" Edgar Barnes, another experienced board member, tried to argue but was cut short.

"Oh, for goodness' sake!" Daggett's voice rose heatedly. "Bruce Wayne got nuts. While he spends his days practicing archery with living things and peeing into Mason jars, the entire conglomerate is sinking." He made a dramatic gesture with his hands when the last words were being uttered.

Sitting at the head of the table, Lucius Fox — Wayne Enterprises CEO — decided that it was time to take his leadership role and stepped in, "Mr. Daggett, I think you've made your point. Pull yourself together, please."

Shifting in his seat, Daggett adjusted his jacket and took a deep breath.

"Whether you recognize it or not, it's Wayne's family name on the building, and no matter how eccentric he might be, he's still the public face of this company," Nattie St. Dumas spoke up with her usual elegance and grace.

All eyes turned to her, and although several nodded their heads in agreement, Daggett sent her a glittering black glance of startling ferocity as if he wanted to snap off her head with a bite.

"Okay. I think we had enough for one day." Sensing the feelings were obviously running high, Lucius managed to pacify the spirits. "I'm gonna consider everything we discussed here and speak with Mr. Wayne about it. I'll tell you as soon as he's made his decision. Until then, I suggest you all to be patient."

That was the go-ahead signal to end the meeting. Worried executives rose from their positions, gathering up their notes and reports, and then exited the room quietly.

Nattie lingered behind, hoping for a private word with the dignified African-American gentleman. When there were only the two of them in the room, she strode toward Fox seat and took a place close to him.

Lucius glanced up from the tablet in front of him and said nothing, just waited for her to say whatever she wanted to tell him. He had to recognize that she was quite lovely and thought that if he had been blessed with a daughter he would have wanted her to be like Natalia St. Dumas — smart, driven, and sensitive.

"Mr. Fox," she began, "why bothering to say you're going to bring Bruce Wayne into the game if everyone knows who really runs Wayne Enterprises?"

He smiled. "I've just thought I might give them something to chew on."

Leaning forward a bit, Nattie said, "Don't get me wrong but you know it's a question of time before some stupid proposal to out Mr. Wayne as president emerges to be voted."

Her tone was calmer but still urgent. There was no reason to doubt that she was really concerned about the whole situation.

Lucius leaned back in his chair, relaxed, appearing to be very sure that the worst case scenario was scarcely worth considering. "No one would step too far. In any case, Mr. Wayne retains a clear majority."

"Are you aware that John Daggett is trying to acquire shares of Wayne Enterprises?"

An arctic chill swept up Fox's spine but years of experience and natural acumen meant the flash of doubt did not show on his face.

"I was not," he admitted.

"Frankly, Mr. Fox, anyone would think you know very little about men like John Daggett. How do you think he acquired his considerable fortune? It wasn't from taking a humanitarian approach to making money. Now, he's aligning himself with Derek Powers. These two together hold enough stocks to pose as a threat. And if they succeed in convincing the board to get behind them… well… I guess you've got the picture. We cannot allow this to happen."

He took off his reading glasses and looked at her closely. "I don't mean this unkindly, but why does saving Wayne Enterprises from Daggett's hands mean so much to you?"

Nattie sighed and stared at him funny. "Besides the fact he's an A-class jerk?"

He chuckled. "Now, tell me something I really don't know."

This time she chuckled too. But her expression soon turned serious. "I know a thing or two about legacy. And I've just thought… I think I can help," she said, forcing her voice to come out with no hint of bitterness, just honesty. "I believe in what Mr. Wayne was trying to do."

"Okay, I'll consider it," Fox said with a smile. At that he fell silent, indicating that the conversation was at an end.

"Thank you," she said, standing up and then left the large room that was surrounded by walls of windows overlooking the bustling city below.

Fox sighed, getting the distinct impression that he was up the creek without a paddle.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

(1) O.R.A.C.L.E. is a original concept from a few users of Super Hero Hype RPG forum. Though I've given a personal touch, most of the credit goes to them.


	7. 7 Where There's Smoke

**AN: **_Please, read and review._

_This chapter is almost entirely dedicated to Commissioner Gordon and the GCPD. Jim is gonna spend some time out of commission and the following chapters will focus again on Bruce (Batman) &amp; Natalia actions._

_The final part of the chapter is largely based on Greg Cox's Official Novelization of TDKR and the movie script with the appropriate changes I've judged to be required. I know many of you might get upset with "more of the same", but I can assure you that it was necessary for a better understanding of the plot.**  
**_

* * *

**7\. WHERE THERE'S SMOKE**

"_Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt."- Sun Tzu, The Art of War_

Around lunch time of that same day, Commissioner Gordon and Detectives MacDonald and Driver crossed the front doorway of the St. Swithin's Home for Boys. It was housed in a newly renovated four-storey Georgian building in one of the most peaceful areas of the city.

They found Father Reilly — a hefty, broad faced Irishman, whose receding white hair had all but surrendered to baldness — in a cluttered office, battling a stack of paperwork. Orphaned and abandoned children, ranging in age from toddlers to teens, roamed the halls outside the office, jostling and joking with one another. Shrill laughter was interspersed with the occasional noisy squabble. Curious eyes peered in the doorway.

Still sitting in his swivel chair, Reilly closed the door to cut down on the hubbub and give the adults a degree of privacy. There were two chairs in front of his desk and a three-seat couch on the other corner of the room, and he motioned for the cops to take a seat.

"I told everything I knew to the detectives yesterday. Danny was a good kid. I have no idea why anyone would do this to him," he said as soon as everyone found a seat.

"The other boy…" Gordon began and then snapped his fingers, trying to remember the name. As there had not been reported any case of serial murder in the last few years, he thought this one deserved to be examined in more depth personally.

"Nick," '_Josie Mac_' came to his aid. "Nick McAllister."

He nodded and continued, "Except for the shots, Nick McAllister was also found dead in similar circumstances nearly two months ago. A homeless man too, few weeks ago. Cause of deaths: drowning."

"Has anyone of them ever mentioned something about their friends outside here or coworkers?" Detective Markus Driver asked, leaning forward in his chair.

Several seconds passed while the priest pondered the question, as if trying to recall something.

"Not that I'm aware of. Nick left the orphanage about two years ago. He haven't been around for a while. He and Danny got their jobs with TELOS Foundation's assistance. By the way, the chairperson is here right now."

Gordon sighed and stood up, being followed by the others. "I'd like to have a word with him," he requested, giving the priest a bland stare.

"It's her. Ms. Natalia St. Dumas. She became our main benefactor in the past few years and sometimes she stops by to see if everything's doing fine. I'll take you to her," Reilly replied, hoping perhaps to get rid of the cops as soon as possible. He had nothing to hide, yet, the presence of those people here caused him to get a bit nervous.

However, before he could even reach the door, the gentle but serious voice of the commissioner came over his shoulder.

"Detective MacDonald here would like to speak with Danny's brother in private, if it's possible," Gordon said, pointing his younger female colleague, standing right behind him.

The priest cocked his head and studied the woman suspiciously, and then said, "I'm gonna fetch him."

* * *

While Detective '_Josie Mac'_ remained in the priest's office, talking with Mark Hirsch — Danny's little brother — the men went to a sort of recreation hall, where a group of small children were gathered together, playing, listening to stories, and doing crafts.

They got a few curious looks as the commissioner scanned the crowd. Nattie was there, watching and helping two kindergartners put together a puzzle. She seemed so relaxed and so genuinely interested, that Gordon wondered if she really was a high ranked executive who handled zillions of dollars and took major decisions every day.

Out of the corner of her eye, Nattie noticed the men coming toward where she was seated. She motioned for the children to continue their task and rose to her feet, smoothing her skirt as she did so. When she glanced up, the priest stood out in front of two other men. At least one of them she knew for sure who was. The question was what they were doing here.

"Excuse me, Ms. St. Dumas. These are Detective Marcus Driver and Commissioner James—"

"Gordon," Nattie prompted boldly before father Reilly could finish the sentence. Her eyes meet with Gordon's as she reflexively extended her hand. "It's an honor to finally meet you, sir." She smiled politely.

He straightened his shoulders and nodded, feeling a bit awkward, before reaching out and firmly shake her hand.

"Nice to meet you too, Ms. St. Dumas. Can we have a minute of your time?"

Nattie shook Driver's hand as she spoke gracefully. "Certainly. What's up?"

Father Reilly cleared his throat and caught Gordon's eye. "I'll leave you alone so you'll have some privacy," he said quietly.

"Well, thank you for your time, Father," Gordon told him gravely, jamming a hand into his pants pocket.

"Anytime. Please let me know if there's anything else I can do to help," the older man replied and then vanished.

The cops turned again to look at the woman standing in front of them. Her eyebrows were raised in a silent question.

"We're actually investigating Danny Hirsch's death," Gordon explained.

Nattie grimaced sadly and her gaze fixed on the children playing around.

"Father Reilly told me what happened. Mark, his little brother, is in shock. Poor thing," she said, looking a bit shaken by the news.

"Did you know Danny?" Gordon asked.

Finally, her gaze turned back to his. "Just by sight."

"Father Reilly told us you're one of the majors sponsors of this orphanage."

"It's a joint effort with several people, Commissioner. I donate to the Saint Hedwig's — the home for girls on the other side of the street — as well"

Gordon thought to himself for a moment. Detective Driver remained silent, allowing his chief to conduct the situation.

"I see. Your Foundation… TELOS, isn't it?"

She narrowed her eyes, darting from one man to the other. "Yes. What about it?"

"You guys have some kind of program that helps young people to enter the labour market, that's correct?

"That's right. We know youngsters usually have trouble finding their first jobs. So TELOS established a partnership with different companies around the city in order to provide them training and experience to perform their tasks," she answered with pride. Then there was a pause. She scrunched her eyebrows and tilted her head. "I don't understand what this has to do with your investigation."

Gordon dragged a hand through his hair and sighed heavily. "Nick McAllister, another former inmate from St. Swithin's, was found dead in very similar circumstances as Danny's. Nick and Danny belonged to the same work program of your Foundation."

He waited for her to put it all together.

Nattie schooled her expression into casual blankness.

"This could just be a coincidence," she blurted out nonchalantly.

Driver chose that right moment to make himself known. "Sorry, ma'am. We're not allowed to believe in coincidence." His voice was incredulous. "And coincidences like this are hard to swallow."

Nattie fixed him with such an imperious glare that suggested she might fry the man at any moment.

"Exactly what are you trying to imply, detective?" she said in a coolly professional tone.

"I'm implying nothing, Ms. St. Dumas. I'm trying to get to the truth of—" he started off but Gordon interrupted him.

"We're trying to find something that could indicate whether any of the deaths are linked or not," the commissioner explained.

She shifted her weight imperceptibly and crossed her arms, her expression softened a bit as her mind worked quickly.

"As far as I know, both of them worked at UniCity Project. It's John Daggett's construction firm. I can't tell you what exactly they're doing there, but someone from TELOS staff can," she said as she pulled out her phone, swiped her finger over the screen in precise motions, and then turned her phone toward them, pointing to the screen. "Here. Contact Finn Watkins. He's directly responsible for the first job program."

Driver jotted down the info on his own phone and said, "Thanks, ma'am."

"I think that's all for now, thank you. We won't distress you any more," Gordon declared politely.

"No problem," she replied lightly, still, her face held an earnest and concerned expression. "I hope you find something that help you sort the case out, really."

In silence Nattie watched the cops leave, resisting the urge to do something rash. By the time they were completely out of view, she pulled out her phone again and with trembling fingers she sent off a brief message. Someone owed her a few explanations.

* * *

Evening had just settled when Jim Gordon summoned his task force for a meeting in his office. Detectives '_Josie Mac'_ and Driver plus Lieutenant Sarah Essen, Captain Margaret '_Maggie'_ Sawyer, and Chief of Police Mackenzie Bock seated all together around the conference table to report what they had figured out until now.

Jim thrust his hands into his pockets and began pacing through the room, his face harsh. "Got something for me?" he asked, anxious.

"Daggett's name is all over the permits I pulled to map the tunnels under Gotham," Marcus Driver informed, consulting his notebook. "MTA maintenance, sewer construction… You name it, we got it."

Gordon leaned in to scrutinize the file displayed on Driver's computer.

"Looks like someone's been quite busy remodeling Gotham's underground," Captain Sawyer said casually, wiping a smile or two from the brooding faces surrounding her.

Jim considered her comment, troubled, and then asked, "Anything out of ordinary?"

"Not at all. All contracts appear to be legal," Driver answered.

"Okay. Keep digging into this issue; try to find out all locations of where they've poured for underground construction."

Driver nodded absently, his attention focused on the screen in front of him.

Josie Mac leaned against a nearby filing cabinet, pulling out her notepad.

"The younger brother didn't say much; just that he hadn't seen Danny for months. But he mentioned that his brother had said that lots of guys were going down the tunnels," she said.

"Who guys?" the commissioner asked. "And what have they been doing in tunnels?"

She shrugged. "Seemingly they can live and work down there."

Mackenzie Bock pulled a face and scratched his head, concerned. "I got a very bad feeling about this,"

"What the Watkins guy told you?" Josie Mac asked Gordon.

"Basically that Danny was a smart, good kid; shy and generally unlikely to cause trouble. Unlike Nick McAllister, who was described as a bit smug and a maverick. But none of them did drugs or had been involved with criminal activities as far as Watkins knew," he answered.

"It backs this up with what their work colleagues said. Even though he was underaged to drink, Nick was last seen on a dive bar at East End district. They said that he usually showed up there during happy hours. The last time, he got into a fight with a big dude known as '_Bird'_," Josie reported.

Gordon rested his hands on his hips, his posture rigid.

"Okay. Find out everything about this '_Bird'_ guy. Real name, address, criminal record, everything," he told her and then turned to the others who were sitting at the table. "Bock, you're going through the boys' phone records. I need this urgently. Lieutenant," he began, glancing at Sarah Essen, "could you please check Nick's and Danny's profiles on social networking services? Let me know if you discover anything interesting."

"Right away, comish," she replied, immediately standing up and turning to leave together with the others.

Once everyone disbanded to perform their obligations, there was a quiet knock on the door of the commissioner's office.

"Come in," Jim demanded.

A little later, Peter Foley quietly poked his head into the room and made eye contact with him.

"Hey, Gordon," he began, stepping into the room. "Still around here? You should put in some more time with the Mayor..."

"That's your department," Gordon spoke up, sounding less kind than he wished to. But before he could make any amends, a rookie showed up at the door.

"We've just got a call on our anonymous-tips line saying that if we want to find out what happened with the boys, we should take a look at the place below Kyle Escort. It's in the East End," the rookie announced.

"I know this place. It's known as '_8 bar'_ and used to be a haunt for third-rate scumbags," Foley remarked. Gordon immediately stood and walked past him out into the hall.

"Listen up," the commissioner raised his voice to address the room and beyond, "Essen, rookie, and Sgt. Akimoto you guys come with me. The rest of you keep going with your tasks." He turned and picked up his coat, and then stormed out of the police station, saying, "Alright, let's get going."

* * *

Minutes later, two unmarked cars were parked in the shadows across from a nondescript, three-story building in East End. One of them was a black Ford full size SUV and the other one was Essen's silver hybrid Toyota.

Inside the Toyota, Gordon peered through the car window, noticing there was no neon signs or advertisements that would indicate that some business could ran over there.

"I think it would be best if I go in there alone," Sarah prompted.

Gordon blinked and shook his head. "What? No… I'm coming with you," he insisted.

"You look too much like a cop. Everyone knows the hero commissioner. You don't wanna draw too much attention to ourselves, do you?"

He let out a frustrated growl. "I'll give you five minutes. No more, no less."

She gave a small smile in response, got out of the car and crossed the street. As she passed by the front of the building, she scanned across, hoping to find any indication they were in the right place. Next to the doorway there was a thin pamphlet inconspicuously attached to the wall — Kyle Escort Service, Inc — and a felt-tip pen arrow pointing to a flight of stairs.

_Yep_, they were at the right place.

Sarah pushed the door open of what she supposed to be the pub and walked in. Although there were a few so-and-so's at the dim, dingy, smoke-filled establishment, all eyes turned to her as soon as she entered it. The acrid odor of tobacco blending with the smell of stale beer and sweat caused her stomach to roll.

When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she summoned her courage and walked over a vacant table, side-glancing the bartender who seemed to share his customers' fatigue as he idly drew circles. On the other side of the room, a pair of slightly drunk tattooed men shouted jokes and malicious comments as their biker-chick girlfriends laughed, delighted.

Ignoring them, Sarah took a seat and scanned the room and its faces. None of them showed any expression that could indicate one was waiting for an outlander.

The strange bartender came over. "What can I get you, blondie?"

"Actually, I'm waiting for someone," she responded, trying to sound casual. The bartender pursed his lips and stared at her suspiciously, almost in a menacing way, before returning to the oak counter.

As she began tapping rhythmically over the table surface, a pan-faced young man dressed in a cheap sports jacket got into the bar. He looked to be sweating, and panting, as if he had just run a marathon. Her eyes met his and he freezed for a brief second, a quizzical look stretched across his face.

Sarah nodded to him, her experience telling her that that startled guy was her informant. Then he looked around warily and stepped toward her table, aware of a couple of curious glances in his direction. She straightened in her chair and motioned for him to take a seat in front of her.

"Would you like something to drink?" Sarah asked sympathetically.

"No, I'm fine," the guy replied nervously. "Are you one of them?"

She raised her eyebrows."Them?"

"A 5-0," the man whispered, afraid that the entire bar could hear it.

She shrugged with grin. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."

At this he looked even more anxious. "Listen, I did nuthin' wrong. Aren't you gonna arrest me, or turn me in, or somethin'?"

Sarah gave him a reassuring smile. "Chill out, kid. That's not gonna happen. Just spit back out what you want me to know."

"Here's the thing, a dude named Danny Hirsch was killed last night trying to get away from some rough people…" he started to hush but before he could go on, a bruiser joined them at the table. A gun was tucked in his belt. He glowered at them in an obvious attempt at intimidation. At the same time, the tattooed men moved to lock the front door.

The other customers immediately sensed the hostile atmosphere that took over the place and Sarah also realized that something was very wrong. Her lips smoothed into a grim line of frustration as her hand discreetly reached for her gun underneath the table. She eyed the informant who seemed to be about to faint, glaring at the big guy by his side.

"Is there anything wrong, gentleman?" she asked the thug, looking directly into his eyes.

The man chuckled with disdain and put the gun to the informant's head, ignoring the woman's question. The few customers who were there stood up in a flash. The tart girls rushed to the back door, squealing.

"You know the code. We can't have loose ends," the tough guy said under the scrutiny of the two tattooed men and the bartender.

"No… puh… please," the informant stammered foolishly, shutting his eyes tightly as though doing so would protect him from anything.

"Guess I'm gonna have to teach you guys a lesson," Sarah murmured under her breath and with one incredibly fast motion, drew her gun and fired at the thug's wrist. The man dropped the gun and fell to his knees, pressing the wound with his other hand.

Chaos broke loose when the tattooed men started to open fire toward Sarah and her companion. She quickly crawled under the table in an attempt to escape the shots being fired at them, but the young man was not so lucky, as she saw him falling beside her, blood leaking from his head and chest as if a tap had been turned on.

Sarah sucked in a sharp breath and fired at random toward the bad guys. Stretching her right leg, she managed to pull away the gun from the first shooter, who was still clutching his bleeding wrist.

All the action happened within seconds until sirens blared outside, causing the shooting to cease for a moment. Spinning red gumball lights could be glimpsed through the drawn window shades.

Sarah deduced that Gordon probably had seen the flashes and heard the sound of gunfire, and then called for reinforcements because in a short space of time, several police cars along with SWAT units were dispatched to the scene and set up a perimeter around the bar.

The thugs looked out the window at cop cars and SWAT units descending on the bar and swore violently. Faced with this situation, the three bad guys managed to run toward the back door, however, one of them was hit by one of Sarah's shots. It was not fatal, but he fell to the ground, helpless.

A SWAT team, each member in full body armor and a faceless black helmet, battered down the door and then fanned out through the bar, the lasers on their automatic rifles sweeping the premises, vivid in the smoke-laden air. They stampeded across the enclosure, chasing the remaining thugs back through the bar and out into the back alley, even as wounded lowlifes groaned and writhed upon the floor.

A firefight broke out in the alley behind the bar while Gordon stormed into it, weapon drawn. He spotted Sarah crouching under the table, checking her informer's pulse. He came to her side, causing her to startle.

"Hey, are you alright?" he asked, squeezing his partner on the shoulder, visible concerned for her.

Sarah turned a face to him filled with sorrow.

"Yeah," she said and then looked at the lifeless body at her side. "He's dead, Jim. They killed him." A hint of agony stroke through her voice.

When the sound of gunfire rang out again, Gordon glanced anxiously at the back door and then turned back to Sarah, seeming as if he was unable to stay but unwilling to leave.

"Are you gonna be fine?"

Sarah gave him a shaky smile and nodded. "Yep."

That's all it took for him to stand up and head out toward the small maze of dark and narrow back streets, where the hunting process was still taking action. Vicious crooks, desperate to get away, opened fire on the SWAT teams, who returned fire with extreme prejudice.

Laying down a blistering volley of cover fire, a group of the hoodlums darted into an even narrower passage. The elite law enforcement group approached the passage, massing on both corners tactically. They exchanged hand signals and counted down silently before rounding the corner, their rifles aimed high and low. Gordon sprinted after them.

He half-expected to find the armed felons waiting in ambush, but instead the dead end appeared to be completely empty. A high brick wall, topped with razor wire, blocked the other end of the passage.

Searching for the hostiles, the troopers looked upward, raising their rifles toward the rickety fire escapes overlooking the scene. However Gordon spotted a cast-iron manhole cover, about midway down the passage, appeared slightly off-kilter.

"Manhole!" he shouted, racing to the manhole cover.

Responding to Gordon's summons, two armored SWAT troopers wrenched off the heavy cover and then tossed the metal circle away, exposing a deep, shadowy cavity. Gordon snatched a flashlight from the nearest SWAT guy.

"You three, down with me. You two, head down to cover the next exit," Gordon instructed, gesturing in their direction.

The men looked around uncertainly.

"Where?"

_Good question..._

"Get the DWP down here… now!" Gordon ordered. The urgency of the situation required an immediate action and he did not have much time to think, to reason, or to engage in decision-making. He had to go after these guys. They did not look to be petty criminals and he suspected that a new gang was taking shape in the tunnels under the city.

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he led the way down into the gloom, scrambling down the ladder as swiftly as his aging bones could manage. The three SWAT men hustled after him.

Keeping his gun drawn and his flashlight low, Gordon and his men crept warily through the claustrophobic tunnels, watching their steps as they trod upon slippery maintenance walkways. The stench was unbearable and the men could barely breathe.

* * *

Above the surface, a cop car, its bubble light spinning wildly, squealed to a halt. Peter Foley emerged from the car and rushed through the alleys behind the bar until he found a large circle of cops crowded around an open manhole.

"Where's the DWP guy?" Sgt. Akimoto grumbled impatiently, glancing at the hole.

Foley shouldered his way into the group. He peered into the gloomy shaft.

"They went down there?" he asked concerned.

Akimoto nodded. "And Gordon took SWAT in after him."

* * *

Down back in the sewers, Gordon swallowed the nauseous feeling creeping up the back of his throat as he heard an indistinguishable muffled noise up ahead, just around a corner. He signaled the men behind him to be on their guard. Adrenalin rushed through his veins, keeping him sharp.

Sure enough, the minute they rounded the corner, they were met with a furious hail of gunfire. Gordon and his men pulled back, seeking shelter while returning fire, shots sparking off the concrete walls. In the oppressive darkness, he couldn't even see who was shooting at them. Suddenly he envied the SWATs in their body armor.

A sudden explosion lit up the tunnels behind them, sending the SWAT men flying. They smashed against the walls before splashing into the sewers. Staggered but still standing, Gordon raced forward, tearing through the tunnels, trying to escape from the the smoke and flames that were chasing after him.

Putting another turn between himself and the flames, he paused to get his bearings. On his own now, he held on tightly to his pistol. He sagged against a damp wall, breathing hard, and checked to make sure he hadn't lost his glasses in the confusion. His ears rang from the explosion.

Loose gravel crunched somewhere behind him. He spun around, but not swiftly enough. A heavy blow struck him in the head.

* * *

When a fireball erupted from the open shaft, Foley and the other cops jumped back to avoid being scorched. Startled shouts and curses escaped their lips. Foley felt the heat of the flames against his face.

"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" he shouted, desperate. "Call 911 and get me a DWP guy! Now!"

_Hell, Gordon! What have you gotten yourself into?_ he thought.

* * *

Dazed from the blow, Gordon struggled to hang on to consciousness. Rough hands took his gun and rolled him over onto his back.

"This one's alive," one of the thugs announced. He studied closer the semiconscious man, realizing that he knew that face. "Jesus. It's the Police Commissioner."

A second thug stared at the experienced cop, his eyebrows raised. "What do we do?" he asked.

They stood there for a moment, uncertainty flickering across their faces. Then the first one spoke again.

"Take him to Bane."

Gordon wondered where his captors were taking him — and just who this '_Bane' _was.

Pretending to be complete knocked out by the blow, he allowed himself to be dragged down through the maze of tunnels by the two thugs. As they descended deeper they encountered work crews of muscular men wielding large drills and jackhammers, working the walls and ceiling of the larger tunnels. Some of the men are armed mercenaries, overseeing gangs of homeless street kids. They eyed the new arrivals suspiciously as Gordon was being dragged past.

As the goons carried him between two waterfalls, into some kind of lair, Jim realized that whoever this Bane guy was he was assembling an army.

They approached a male figure, turned away, crouched in the firelight. He was bare-chested and a crooked line of scar tissue could be seen along the length of his spine. A dark rubber headpiece was strapped to his skull.

"Why are you here?" the man asked, his voice muffled. Gordon guessed this was Bane.

The thugs tossed Gordon at his feet.

"Answer him!" one of them demanded.

Bane stood up and slowly turned to the thugs. He was easily six and a half feet tall, if not taller, and comfortably over two hundred and fifty pounds, all of it muscle. Gordon's eyes widened at the sight of the elaborate apparatus concealing the giant's nose and mouth. Some sort of gas mask? The commissioner sniffed the air, but detected only the stale atmosphere of the tunnels.

"I'm asking you," Bane said to the two thugs.

"It's the police commissioner," one of them volunteered. Hearing this, Bane did not look pleased.

"And you brought him down here?" he asked.

"We didn't know what to do," the other man said, trying to explain. "We—"

"You panicked," Bane said, cutting him off. "And your weakness cost three lives."

The flunky looked around in confusion.

"No, he's alone—"

Bane flipped the thug's chin up and to the side with a crack. The man's lifeless body dropped to the floor. Then the mercenary turned to the remaining thug.

"Search him. Then I will kill you."

Bane's intended victim gulped, pale as a sheet. He glanced around anxiously, no doubt searching for a way out, only to see Bane's guards hefting their weapons. The soldiers had the battle-hardened look of professional mercenaries.

Terrified, the hoodlum pulled out Gordon's badge, wallet, gun and the folded papers of the speech he had not read the previous night. Bane took these one by one with quick glances. He stopped at the papers, unfolded them and started to examine its contents page by page.

Taking advantage of the fact that the mercenary looked completely absorbed in his reading, Gordon seized his time and rolled off the steps over the edge of the platform, splashing into the churning waters below.

Instantly he sank beneath the surface. He tried to hold his breath, but the cold water gushed into his mouth and nose. The current caught hold of him and started to carry him away.

Startled guards shouted and cursed, the sound muffled by the water. Automatic weapons blared loudly. Bullets slammed into Gordon's body, tearing through flesh and bone. Searing jolts of pain rocked him from head to toe. He screamed beneath the water.

Crimson foam spread atop the water. The current cleared it away.

Bane gazed down into the flowing river. His unworthy minion, who had been imprudent enough to bring Gordon into their base of operations in the first place, stared at the channel, as well.

"He's dead," the fool insisted, as though that might somehow excuse his poor judgment. "He has to be."

Bane tucked Gordon's papers into his belt, so that he could examine them at his leisure. His mind raced with ways he might put these revelations to use.

"Then show me his body," he spoke to the terrified man in front of him.

"That water runs to any one of the outflows," the man protested. "We'd never find him."

Bane considered the problem. He turned to his lieutenant, Barsad.

"Give me your GPS," the masked leader demanded.

Barsad handed his boss a GPS who tucked the device into the yellow-livered minion's jacket, and zipped it up like a mother sending her kid to school.

"Follow him," he uttered as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

The worthless fool stared at him with an utter lack of comprehension. "Follow him?"

Bane drew his gun and shot the man between the eyes.

The body dropped to the floor. Bane kicked it over the edge of the platform and into the turbulent water, then watched as the current carried the corpse in the same direction as Gordon. He turned and again addressed Barsad.

"Track him," Bane instructed him. "Make sure both bodies will not be found. Then brick up the south tunnel."

Barsad hurried to carry out his orders. Bane took out Gordon's papers and leafed through them again. Apparently fate was on his side.

* * *

Foley and dozens of police officers spent much of the night at the water treatment facility, tracking down every catchment basin with the help of DWP guys. Everything seemed so crazy. In an instant they were investigating a phone call that could clarify the death of a boy. The next moment they were rummaging the sewage outputs searching for Gordon and a couple of SWATs.

He came out to a specific catchment basin and spotted something stucked up against the grille. He thrusted his hand into the raging waters. Gordon was there, alive.

"Hey, help me here," Foley barked, as he tried to haul Gordon's limp body onto the concrete. He hoisted him up and hurried to the cops to lead the commissionaire to a hospital.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	8. 8 There's Fire

**AN:** Hello, everyone.  
So to answer the questions of some readers, Selina's not gonna show up in this fic and Nattie will kick some asses later. Stay tuned and don't forget to read and review.

* * *

**8\. THERE'S FIRE**

The following morning Bruce had awoken early and uncharacteristically was having his breakfast in the nook attached to the mansion's main kitchen. A flat screen television in the corner was broadcasting the morning news and turned very low.

After serving the meal, Alfred picked up the mail and started to slowly flick through the envelopes. A particular one caught his attention. Drawing level with his employer he slid what appeared to be an invitation to him.

Frowning slightly, Bruce picked it up. In an automatic gesture, he opened it, grimacing as he read the contents. When he was finished reading, he snorted and put the refined envelope aside.

"Is everything well?" Alfred asked, curious.

Looking quickly up at the butler, Bruce echoed the invitation contents, "On behalf of the TELOS Foundation, Ms. Natalia Saint Dumas cordially invite you to attend the Annual Charity Ball in favor of the numerous organizations assisted by our institution. Your contribution can make a big change to someone's life." He gave a small wry smile as he saw almost a look of satisfaction in Alfred's eyes.

"Maybe it will be an excellent opportunity for you to overcome a bad first impression, sir." the butler teased, excited.

"Well that's one point of view," Bruce replied wryly, taking a sip of his coffee.

"When is it?"

Bruce shrugged, glancing over at the television, where a thirty-something black woman was showing changes in commodities price while standing in the middle of the London Stock Exchange. A caption on the screen said that her name was Lorraine Randall, and that she was '_live'_.

"Tomorrow night at the Museum of Modern Art," he answered without taking his eyes from the screen.

"So are you going to go?" Alfred insisted.

It had always been Bruce's priority to avoid Natalia St. Dumas at all costs. She might be nice, intelligent, and beautiful, but she was also a daunting reminder of his own shortcomings as an entrepreneur. So out of sight, out of mind.

He surrendered to the fact that there was just something about her that drew his attention, but he knew things between them would never work out. With Batman came baggage — regrets, unanswered questions, and memories he would be tied to for the rest of his life.

Struggling to maintain a blasé tone and to not reveal any hint of the emotions that was swirling through him, he said, "If it makes you happy, I'll think about it."

Displaying a broad smile in response, Alfred turned to leave as Bruce flipped on the television to catch something that could be of his interest. But the old man came to a halt as he noticed how Bruce looked at the screen with concern; his hand, bearing a multigrain bagel, frozen halfway to his open mouth.

Bruce picked up a remote and raised the volume.

"State police spokesman Lieutenant Ron Probson didn't provide further information about the event, limiting only to inform the veteran police officer has been shot during the fulfillment of his duty," a blonde anchorwoman sat at the newsdesk declared as a banner marched across the bottom of its thirty-two-inch screen:

**POLICE COMMISSIONER RUSHED TO HOSPITAL IN SERIOUS CONDITION AFTER BEING SHOT.**

Bruce's jaw clenched at the sight of it.

Bethany Snow, the anchorwoman for Channel 52, continued, "We go now live to our field reporter, Jack Rider, who is outside the Gotham General and has an update on Gordon's medical situation. Jack?

The field reporter came on the screen. "Thank you, Bethany. I can confirm that Commissioner James Gordon suffered serious gunshot injuries. Though he's no longer in danger of death, he remains under strict observation and is on artificial sedation, showing moments of consciousness and awakening."

The screen split and the studio image appeared on one side with the temporary field location remaining on the other.

"What exactly happened, do you know?" Bethany inquired.

"Well, information is still a bit cloudy. What we really know for sure is that Gordon chased a gunman down into the sewers while investigating a murder case, getting caught in the middle of a firefight then."

"I understand you've spoken to an informant who declined to be identified, is that accurate?"

"That's right, Bethany. A law enforcement source with knowledge of the investigation told us the police was investigating the death of three men who had been found dead at a sewage treatment plant within the space of a few weeks," as he spoke a photo montage of two very young men was frozen on the studio side of the screen. "Two of them were former residents of the St. Swithin's Home for Boys and worked in the construction sector..."

Rider's voice trailed off as an uproar behind him stopped him mid sentence. The camera focused on a new image. On the screen, reporters were following Deputy Commissioner Peter Foley as he walked down the steps of the hospital entrance with a small entourage in tow.

"Do you confirm the commissioner's words about the existence of an underground army in Gotham sewers?" one of the reporters inquired as the others swooped in, shoving mics and cameras in Foley's face.

The shock was so evident in Foley's eyes he was unable to speak for a second or two.

"From where did get this nonsense?" he spoke testily into a microphone. "In a moment, you guys will start talking that there are some giant alligators down there too."

With that, he elbowed his way through the reporters as they yelled overlapping questions, and trudged to his car.

Bruce turned off the TV and tossed the remote over the nearest chair. Running his hands through his hair, he sighed heavily, looking lost in thought for a moment.

"St. Swithin's. It rings a bell," he mused.

"Perhaps because it used to be one of the many institutions aided by Wayne Foundation."

He finally turned to meet Alfred's eyes. The old man held the same strained expression as his own.

"Used to? Why did the Wayne Foundation stop funding the boys' home?"

"The Foundation is funded from the profits of Wayne Enterprises," the elderly man reminded him. "There have to be some."

Bruce's lips thinned into a line of extreme annoyance. Recent years had taken their toll on the company his ancestors had founded, but he had not realized that Wayne Enterprises' financial reverses had hurt the charities that depended on its largesse. He rebuked himself for not paying closer attention.

Ms. St. Dumas was right when she had told him that he should start paying attention to what was happening out in the real world. Perhaps it was time to get some fresh air...

"Time to talk to Mr. Fox, I think," he declared.

Alfred gave a small nod. "I'll get him on the phone—"

"No," Bruce countered, glancing askance to the pane hidden behind the nook's curtain. "Do we still have any cars around the place?"

The butler lighten up instantly. "One or two."

"And I need an appointment at the hospital. About my leg."

"Which hospital, sir?"

"Whichever one Jim Gordon's in."

Alfred's expression fell, clearly less excited by this part of the request.

He turned to leave, but Wayne had another question.

"Alfred?"

The old man stopped on his heels. "Yes, sir?"

"What is it like outside?" Bruce asked, his expression neutral.

Alfred blinked at what seemed an odd question. A silence stretched between them filled with thought.

"It is the promise of a beautiful day, Master Bruce," the butler answered with a grin.

A beautiful day… Would it be?

* * *

After having a lunch meeting with a group of investors from Middle East, Lucius Fox came into his office only to find an unexpected visitor. A small smile crossed his lips.

"Bruce Wayne," he intoned, "As I live and breathe."

Clean-shaven and perfectly dressed in an expensive suit, Bruce rose to greet him, leaning on his cane.

"What brings you out of cryo-sleep Mr. Wayne?" the older man asked, causing the heir to the Waynes' fortune to chuckle.

"I see you haven't lost your sense of humor… even if you have lost most of my money."

Fox settled behind his desk. "Actually, you did that yourself," he replied, dismissing the accusation. "See, if you funnel the entire R and D budget for five years into a fusion project that you then mothball, your company is unlikely to thrive."

"Even with—"

"A wildly sophisticated CEO, yes. Wayne Enterprises is running out of time. And Daggett and his lickspittles are moving in."

Bruce sighed heavily and looked at the man who watched over the extensive financial concerns of his business empire. "What're my options?"

"You've got the family dynasty behind you. This entire corporation is yours. Your majority keeps Daggett at arm's length," Fox assured, only to then add, "However, you'll need the right players on your side."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you should enlist the aid of Natalia St. Dumas. She's supported your project all the way and has the prestige and expertise required for the situation," Fox advised, leaning back on his chair. "Not to mention she's smart, and quite lovely."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "You too, Lucius?"

The CEO grinned softly, devilishly. "We all just want what's best for you, Bruce."

"What does she want in return?" the billionaire asked in his deep, low voice.

"You know, there's no free lunch. It might be time for you to turn your machine on—"

"No," Bruce said firmly, his mouth set in a stubborn line.

"Before you decide, consider," Fox reasoned, an expression of uneasiness twisting his mouth. "Sometimes the right thing to do is the harder thing to do."

"I'll think it over," Bruce said and rose to his feet, putting as much weight as he could on his cane. His answer was more than Lucius had expected, so the CEO chose to leave it at that.

"Anything else?" he inquired, leaning against the front of his desk.

Bruce cocked a quizzical eyebrow. "No, why?"

Fox smiled nostalgically. "These conversations always used to end with some… unusual requests."

"I retired," the younger man said tersely.

Lucius stood up and walked over to a large bookcase. He pressed a button and the floor to ceiling bookshelves slid apart from the center, revealing a hidden elevator behind it.

"Let me show you some stuff, anyway," he said, motioning for Wayne to follow him.

* * *

Moments later Fox led Wayne into a vast, gadget-filled space — the Wayne Enterprises Applied Sciences Division — hidden away in a hangar-sized bunker deep beneath the tower, many stories below the business offices.

The younger man limped uncomfortably through the vast, cavernous chambers, inspecting Lucius's growing collection of high-tech toys. The CEO was keen to introduce Bruce to some new stuff the billionaire did not recognised at first, explaining that he had been consolidating all the prototypes under his roof, in an attempt to avoid them from falling into the wrong hands.

At some point, Fox unveiled a new vehicle — a state-of-the-art aircraft — that he simply chose to dub it '_The Bat'_. He proudly explained the contraption, telling Bruce it did indeed '_come in black'_.

Bruce was impressed and could not resist taking a closer look. Instinctively he wondered how the Bat handled in the air. As though reading his mind, Fox assured him that the vehicle worked great, except for the autopilot. He then suggested, as Bruce had more free time than him, he could fix it.

But Bruce refused to let the older man entice him. He turned his back on the aircraft with an undeniable twinge of regret.

"That'll be all for today?" Fox asked hopefully, putting his hands on his hips.

Bruce pondered the question and an idea occurred to him. "Actually, there's something that has been bothering me. My knee."

Lucius nodded his head slightly. "Well, I'm not a physician but my guess is some of this damage is chronic." He eyed Bruce's cane. "Probably the cost of jumping off rooftops."

Wayne's smile faltered a little, but only for a second. Fox could tell he was a little disappointed.

"I'd like to get back on my feet."

"I can give you a brace device, but the chances are it won't solve your problem completely. A group of guys from S.T.A.R. Labs has made incredible advances in personalized therapy for cartilage and bone regeneration. I know someone there who owes me a couple of favors. I can give him a call."

Bruce's expression instantly brightened. "Okay."

* * *

Sitting on the navy blue vinyl waiting room chairs at the rebuilt Gotham General Hospital, Bruce's eyes ran discreetly over a redheaded teenager who sat three chairs away, taking in the pink glasses she was wearing and the way she clung to her phone. The girl could not come off the device, texting frantically as if her life depended on it.

Shifting his position in order to get a better view of the area, Bruce realized he would be unable to reach Gordon's room by the front door. Security had been increased around the whole hospital, particularly on this storey which explained why there were so many guards around every door.

Luckily, he had a plan B.

"Place is a little armored, huh?" he commented nonchalantly, then gave an exaggerated sigh. "Must be some important chap inside there."

The redheaded huffed out a breath, stopping what she was doing, and then looked up, the brilliance of her emerald eyes piercing him for a split-second, incandescent with disbelief.

"You don't watch a whole lot of news, do you?" she asked, narrowing her eyes behind large glasses, what made her look adorable. "My dad, the police commissioner, is here."

Bruce was not expecting to find Gordon's youngest child here, yet, it was a nice surprise to see that his former ally was surrounded by his loved ones. He was aware that Gordon's family had been torn apart due to the sham they both had decided to sustain eight years ago, and that made him feel even guiltier about that.

A moment after his gaze found hers, his square jaw relaxed with a smile that was supportive. She was so grown-up now.

"Oh, I've heard he was shot. I'm really sorry. Have you heard anything yet?"

The girl looked at him shyly.

"Th-They just let me see him for a couple of minutes. The doctor said he's gonna be all right but he barely registered my presence in the room," she practically whispered, unable to keep her voice from cracking. A glint of desolation showed through her tear-glazed green eyes.

It looked disturbingly similar to his own expression when he had found himself as an orphan overnight, and just looking at her right now set his nerves on edge, brought him back to that time. Hurt and fury and incomprehension boiled inside of him all over again.

"I'm sure he's gonna be fine. Your father's as tough as nails," he stated, in an attempt to comfort her.

"It's what everyone says," she told him morosely.

Hesitantly, Bruce articulate, "Miss… er… I didn't catch your name."

The teenager frowned up at him. "Course you didn't catch it, I didn't throw it, but beings you asked it's Barbara. Babs for short, so no one confuses me with my mother," she said quickly, holding out a small, soft hand.

"Nice to meet you, Babs. I'm Bruce Wayne," he stated, shaking her hand.

Barbara blinked rapidly, obviously shocked with his announcement.

"Wait... Bruce Wayne? As in Wayne Enterprises? Wow, you don't seem like the way people describe you." She spoke way too quick and trailed off at the last words.

Upon the questioned look he raised, she clarified outspokenly, "You know, the _'Ogre'_ with scarred face and eight-inch fingernails."

His eyebrows shot up and he managed to clamp shut his hanging jaw. The one-time prince of Gotham City looked to be skeptical. "Is that what they say about me?"

She shrugged. "It's just that… nobody ever sees you."

"Is there someone else staying with you, Babs?" Bruce asked, willfully changing the subject. His voice was warm and parental, like a father or protector.

"My mom's coming tomorrow. Sgt. Essen is gonna watch over me 'til then. She went to the cafeteria to get me something to eat."

After listening to her response, Bruce produced a business card from his pocket and handed it to her, who stared at the small piece of paper.

"If you need anything else, just say the word," he said solicitously, further surprising her with his consideration.

Barbara glanced at him with a grateful smile on her face. "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

As if on cue, a thin, gray-haired nurse hurried down the hall toward the waiting-room, addressing Bruce bossily, "There you are, Mr. Wayne. Dr. Angelopoulos' office is three stories above, and he has a tight schedule today. Would you please follow me right now."

"Oh, I must be living under a rock," he excused himself and hopped out of his seat, favoring his leg. "Gotta go."

Barbara gave a noncommittal nod and made a strangled sound of amusement as she watched Bruce moving away as fast as he could from the bank of chairs along the far wall, as if he were a boy who had just taken a mother's scolding.

The serious nurse signaled for him to follow her, seeming the least bit impressed by his flirtatious charm that most women responded to.

* * *

It was already dark outside by the time Dr. Angelopoulos received the last results of Wayne's medical tests, which was perfectly scheduled for what the billionaire had in mind. Sitting on an examination table, Bruce listened, distracted, as the physician showed him a couple of X-rays and explained his knee condition in detail.

As soon as he found himself completely alone in the exam room, Bruce quickly dressed and pulled a wool ski mask over his head. Moving rapidly, before anyone remembered to check on him, he hobbled over to the window and climbed onto the sill. Twisting the head of his cane, he drew out a length of unbreakable monofilament wire and clipped it to his belt, then wedged the cane securely behind the window frame. The glass pane slid open easily, allowing a sharp autumn wind to whip its way inside.

Bruce leaned out to inspect the view. The exam room was on one of the topmost floors of the hospital, facing a dark alley far and away from prying eyes. So far, his plan was working along the line. Although he had not attempted a stunt like this in years, he threw himself out the window into the night. Gravity seized him and he plunged toward the alley below, the wire unspooling behind him.

After dropping three floors, he came to a halt directly outside a private room on the eleventh floor. Dim lights penetrated the curtains as he stealthily raised the window and slipped inside the room. Carefully, making no sound, he crossed toward the haggard figure in the bed.

His heart sank at the sight.

Gordon was lying in the hospital bed, hooked up to several tubes and machines and monitors. An oxygen mask was securely placed over his face, which was pale where it was not bruised.

Bruce, still in his ski mask, walked over to the bed, ignoring both the steady beep of a heart monitor and the dripping sound of an IV bag of clear fluid. A low growl must have escaped from his lips, because Gordon's eyes fluttered open.

Somehow the injured man seemed to distinguish the masked one standing at the foot of his bed, because he smiled weakly, a spark of recognition in his eyes. Wincing in pain, he tugged the mask away from his mouth.

"We were in this together," he said with a weak, hoarse voice. "Then you were gone—"

"The Batman wasn't needed anymore," Bruce responded, disguising his voice. "We won."

"Built on a lie," Gordon croaked. "Now there's an evil rising from the depths of hell. He has an army. Bane… His name… He's…" In obvious distress, he gasped for some air, and then continued, "You have to believe me. The Batman has to stop him… He has to come back."

Bruce reached for the other man's hand and squeezed it softly. "What if he doesn't exist anymore?" he replied aloud.

"He must," Gordon murmured weakly. "He must." Either by exhaustion or by the sedative taking effect, he began to drift into sleep.

Bruce watched him close his eyes and felt a long-buried anger building in his chest.

He had first met Jim Gordon on the worst night of his life. Years later, the veteran cop had not only proved to be a valuable ally to Batman, but also his integrity and courage were essential in the war against crime.

Gordon was his friend. Whoever did this to him needed to pay.

And now he got a name — _Bane_.

* * *

Back to the interior of his silver Lamborghini, Bruce took out his phone and hit a number on speed dial.

Alfred answered on the second ring. "Wayne Manor," the butler said politely.

"Alfred, this is me," Bruce began, "I need you to check a name for me."

He owed Gordon that consideration at least, he reasoned grimly.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	9. 9 We Were All Someone Else Yesterday

**AN:** Please, read and review. Next chapter, we're going to see Nattie and Bruce meeting at the ball and Bane, well, being Bane. So stay tuned. XOXO.

* * *

**9\. WE WERE ALL SOMEONE ELSE YESTERDAY**

_"'You can't repeat the past.'_

'_Can't repeat the past?' he cried incredulously. 'Why of course you can!'" - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby_

When Bruce arrived at the Manor that evening, Alfred was waiting in the front hall.

"How's Commissioner Gordon doing?" the elderly man asked.

"He's holding up. What have you got for me?" Bruce asked him with an air of urgency in his voice.

"I ran the name you gave me through some databases," Alfred said. The faithful butler had once served as an operative for British Intelligence, before going into service. His skills at garnering information still came in handy. "Bane. He's a mercenary. No other known name. Never been seen or photographed without a mask. His name is linked to a black ops operating mainly in Eastern Europe. He and his men were behind a coup in West Africa that secured mining operations for our friend John Daggett."

This information intrigued Wayne. He raised an eyebrow at that, then glanced at Alfred.

"Now Daggett's brought them here?" he asked.

"It would seem so. I'll keep digging," Alfred replied, reaching for a package wrapped in brown paper which was lying over an oak sideboard table. "By the way, this arrived less than an hour ago."

He handed Bruce the package, who smiled a triumphant smile when he saw the sender.

"It's from Fox," he announced, then walked away, leaning heavily on his cane and carrying the package under one arm. "I'll be down in the cave."

* * *

Moments later, Bruce tried out the experimental carbon-fiber brace in the cave. He clamped the brace onto his right leg and pressed a blinking button on its side. The pivoted orthotic toned up at once, tightening around the joint. A thin layer of padding cushioned the brace. Bruce stood up from a bench and worked the knee, attempting deep bends and stretches. It took some effort, but the brace moved with him smoothly, without chafing or riding up and down his leg.

Alfred came up that instant and put down a tray with Wayne's dinner on the support table.

"You've got the wrong leg, sir."

Bruce shook his head and explained, "You start with the good limb so it learns your optimum muscle patterns."

He sat down again on the black slate bench and swapped the brace to his bad left knee. He rose cautiously, putting his weight on it, and grunted in satisfaction as the reinforced leg appeared to support him. He bent slowly, then rose again, more confidently this time. He threw a kick at the empty air.

A rare smile lifted his lips. He was liking this.

"Now we tighten it up."

He pressed harder on the button, clicking it again. The brace contracted against his leg, the unyielding carbon fibers digging into his flesh.

Grimacing, he gritted his teeth against the increased pressure. A groan escaped from his lips as the brace clicked home.

Alfred looked on with concern but avoided making any comments.

Wayne reached out and grabbed a syringe from the tray over a table and stabbed himself in the knee. The injectable medication — a mix of chondroprotective agents and a local anesthetic — reduced the pain in his knee almost straight away. He made a mental reminder to thank Mr. Fox for this other little gift.

"These aren't going to fix your knee," Alfred pointed out, indicating the syringe.

Bruce glanced up. "They'll help it heal faster."

He took a moment to allow the drugs to take effect before rising to his feet again, realizing the leg felt more solid than it had in years.

"Not bad," he said.

A stack of bricks waited a few feet away. Bruce spun and delivered a furious roundhouse kick to the bricks, which went flying across the cave. Overhead, startled bats screeched in alarm. They flapped wildly among the stalactites.

"Not bad at all."

Picking up a brick, Alfred examined it and considered unenthusiastically the disturbing implications that it meant. He followed Bruce across the bridge to the central cube with a pensive expression.

"I assume you're seriously considering going back out there," he said.

"Am I really that predictable?" Bruce quipped, barely giving a backward glance.

Alfred shot him an indignant look.

"You can take the mickey out of it as much as you want, but I think you should hear some rumors surrounding Bane before you do anything," he said without a hint of amusement in his voice.

The younger man finally gave him his full attention.

"I'm all ears."

"There is a prison. In a more ancient part of the world. A pit. Where men are thrown to suffer and die. But sometimes, a man rises from the darkness. Sometime the pit sends something back," Alfred told him grimly.

"Bane," Bruce rolled the sinister name in his mouth.

"Born and raised in a hell on earth."

Bruce's brow furrowed and he spun to face his butler. "Born in a prison?"

"No one knows why. Or how he escaped. But they know who trained him once he did… Rã's al Ghul. Your mentor," Alfred reported.

Wayne stared back at his butler as he took this in, shocked.

"Rā's plucked Bane from a dark corner of the Earth," Alfred continued, "and trained him in the blackest disciplines of combat, deception, and endurance. Just like you."

The billionaire was stunned by the news. He had thought Bane merely a vicious mercenary, but the truth was far worse.

"Bane was a member of the League of Shadows." The sentence sound more like a statement than a question.

"Until he was excommunicated," Alfred said. "And a man considered too extreme for Rā's al Ghul is not to be trifled with."

But Bruce refused to be intimidated. "I didn't realize I was known for '_trifling'_ with criminals."

The loyal manservant inhaled and exhaled slowly. He had the look he always got right before he would tell his employer something sagely.

"That was then," he began gravely, catching Bruce's eyes. "And you can strap up your leg and put the cowl back on, but it won't make you what you were."

"I may not be who I was eight years ago, but one thing I know for sure, I'll do whatever it takes to help this city."

"Then do it," Alfred seemed to agree. "As Bruce Wayne. Gotham needs your resources, your knowledge. Not your body — not your life. That time has passed."

Frustration ran over Bruce's features.

"I tried helping as Bruce Wayne, Alfred. And I failed." He shut his eyes tightly, as if he wanted to swallow his disappointment to the bottom of his heart, and then stared back at Alfred. "This guy… He's been leaving a trail of bodies and seemingly assembling an army for heaven knows what," he tried to reason.

"Well, if my opinion counts for anything, I think that's an incredibly bad idea, Master Bruce. I think it's reckless, I think it's premature, and, quite frankly, I think it's bloody dangerous," the elderly man protested.

"And we've already been over this before, Alfred. My mind is made up," Bruce snapped back. The tension hanging almost visibly in the air between them.

Alfred's jaw clenched and he pressed his lips together tightly, then forced himself to say the words, "Very well, sir." Then he turned and left.

Bruce obligated himself to think about the situation, calmly and rationally as he crossed the Batcave, no longer needing his cane. Reaching the end of the platform, he pressed his hand against a panel, unlocking what it seems a secret, hidden underwater compartment. A glass cabinet emerged out of the ground. Inside the rectangular closet was the Batsuit. Adjacent metal shelves held a number of accessories, including boots, the utility belt, the cape and the cowl.

He took the cowl off the shelf, realizing that — no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise — he had never stopped needing Batman.

It was time to come out of retirement.

Within moments, he was racing across the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge and entering Gotham City limits, without the slightest shred of doubt what he must do.

* * *

John Daggett's luxury triplex occupied the top floor of a skyscraper in a ritzy uptown neighborhood overlooking the Robson Park. Designer furniture and noble materials advertised his wealth.

That night after dinner he hung out with his trusted aide — Philip Stryver — in the library on the second floor of the penthouse. Both men settled back into overstuffed leather chairs, enjoying cuban cigars and fine brandy.

"Fox's working on a plan to raise cash and reduce the company's debt," Daggett said.

He cradled the glass and swirled the amber liquid around before continuing, "Everything suggests that he'll put up for sale some of Wayne Enterprises assets. The decision still needs to win the green light from the Board though."

Stryver blew cigar smoke, his eyes half lidded as he carefully pondered what the other man had just said.

"Most likely he'll face difficult market conditions for doing that," he began. "Unless he's willing to dispose them with depreciated prices. The market isn't very '_buyer'_ right now." The last words were spoken with an eyebrow raised for effect.

Daggett chuckled with disdain and took another sip, mentally congratulating himself for making that acquisition — a rare bottle of brandy that survived the Nazi occupation of Normandy and it had been purchased at an auction. He was waiting for a special occasion to open the bottle, but the thrill of anticipation and excitement at the possibilities of what might happen caused him to break his promise.

"Or he could take the route of capital increasing," he told Stryver as vicious ideas were swirling in his mind. "Issuing new shares, you know? If the deal is good and promising then it's unlikely to cause wide variations on the share prices."

Stryver put down his cigar in a silver ashtray and turned to his boss. "Even so minority shareholders will have a hard time to keep their positions. Most of them will end up seeing their stakes diluted in the process."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," the industrialist noted with a smirk.

The executive stood up and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlooked the park. He looked pensive for a moment.

"If Wayne Enterprises announce beforehand that will issue new shares, they would only make the shares downgrade to junk status even further," he declared. "Even you could lose out."

Daggett made a dismissive gesture with his hands, the kind of movement that means, '_it does not matter'_.

"Believe me, I have it under control," he said, so sure of himself that he disdained any adverse comment to his plans. Leaning on his seat in Stryver's direction, he added, "My point is the following: turn Bruce Wayne from the controlling stockholder into a minority stockholder; make this a sort of condition for the company to get back any credibility with investors and lenders."

"And how do you expect to do that?" Stryver questioned, looking at his interlocutor with a raised eyebrow. Daggett let out a small smile.

"By capitalizing on Wayne's strange behavior. Fill the market with enough rumours and convince the board to vote the son of a bitch out as Chairman. Then voilà."

"Well, this was your plan all along, wasn't it? Tear his family company apart from the inside? Leave the golden boy broken, powerless, so you could take his place."

"Yes," Daggett hissed dramatically like a serpent.

Stryver had never fully understood the rivalry between his employer and the playboy prince of Gotham, or why John Daggett was so committed to seize control of Wayne Enterprises — besides the obvious, of course — at any cost. Now and then he felt like asking what was the real reason behind all that but decided it would be inappropriate.

He crossed his arms over his chest, recalling of a dangerous element not yet mentioned in that conversation. "Well, then tell me this one thing — where the masked man comes into this story?"

"Oh, he's gonna take certain players out of my way and help me to correctly place the pieces over the board," Daggett replied, raising his glass in a toast-like fashion.

* * *

Late in the evening, a lone figure stood atop a skyscraper, silhouetted by the bright moon. The dark shadow took shape when its cape whipped about in the chilling wind as though it were alive. The Dark Knight was back, watching his city as a silent guardian.

Before leaving the safety of the cave, Bruce had done his homework by studying Gotham City's police missing reports for the previous three months. He had used his secret log in and password to access the police database to figure out a pattern in those cases involving homicides. The killers were obviously using the sewer system to hide the corpses, which only corroborated what Gordon had already informed him.

Batman was considering his options as he activated the new gadget inside his gauntlet — a wrist-mounted computer linked to the computer in the cave. He typed a few commands onto the on-screen keyboard and the map of Gotham City appeared. A red light blinked somewhere not far away, signaling that an alarm had been set off.

He zoomed in and found out that the place was one of the many Wayne Enterprises' storage facility in the Waterfront area.

_Could be a robbery._ A smile played on his lips at the thought. _I'd better check it out._

* * *

A black van slid around a corner and pulled in at a deserted street, which stood opposite to an enormous container park. The area was quiet, almost spooky. Two armed men in ski masks got out of the vehicle and removed a crate from the back of it as a third masked guy met them.

While two of them carried the heavy box into a warehouse type building, the last of the three closed the back of the SUV and slapped its rear, yelling, "Go! Move it out!"

The car drove away and the third man led the two carrying the lockbox into the storage facility.

"Drop it there, fellas," the third thug declared, motioning for the other two to put the crate down.

As the newcomers did what had been requested of them, the one who had been waiting for them took of his mask and tossed it on a table. He then walked careless to the center of the warehouse and glanced at his surroundings, looking for something valuable.

Once his task was accomplished, one of the other thugs switched on some lights, which instantly went off as if a breaker had blown or something, leaving them in the shadows again. He swore loudly and turned to his partner, "Oh c'mon. Ray! Check the breaker."

Holding a flashlight between his teeth, Ray walked over to an electrical box and started to investigate. Suddenly, his head was bashed into the electrical box by a shadowy figure, sending him unconscious and bloody on the ground, the flashlight stuck into his mouth.

The thud of course alerted the other two members and the unmasked one silently gave the other a nod to go check out the noise.

The masked goon stepped along the wooden floor, only to be surprised by the unexpected. "Gaggh!" he emitted a muffled grunt as two strong arms broke out from the floor and pulled him down into the darkness.

The last man standing ran up to the hole in the floor and started spraying bullets into the hole. Stopping fire, the thug took a couple of steps back, unaware that Batman was standing right behind him. By spinning around, he literally bumped into the Caped Crusader, and both men locked arms as the thug fired some more rounds.

Batman punched the thug in the face and then clutched his throat in his hand as the man's eyes remained wide open in obvious fright. He grabbed the man by the collar and growled angrily, "Who are you working for?"

The thug gasped, "Oh! Ah!" He stammered, "Oh, pws… please!"

"Tell me!" Batman hissed, his voice like ice-edged steel.

"A mate told me about this guy. He uses a black mask, like a… like one of those gas masks," the thug offered, panic swirling generously into his tone.

"What does he want? Where is he?"

"I don't know anything else. Never saw him. I deal in stolen merchandise, that's it, man."

Batman's jaw clenched further. This guy was obviously just a low-level pawn. Frustrated, he headbutted the unmasked thug in the head, knocking him unconscious and dropping him to the floor.

He glanced around and quickly examined a few boxes, rusted barrels and wooden crates. Moving the cover of one of them aside, he oddly found heavy weaponry worth maybe more than several digits on the street. What this was doing in a Wayne Enterprises' storage facility made no sense to him.

Would someone be using that space to smuggle weapons? Bane and his minions or someone else? Did Daggett have part in it?

While questions were popping in his head, Batman walked over to the crate that the men had carried in and kicked it open, only to come across what seemed to be a bomb whose timer was giving him less than two minutes to escape.

The Caped Crusader managed to carry out all three unconscious men to a safe distance. Behind him, there was a dull explosion; windows burst in a tinkle of glass and flames erupted outward as a huge fireball flared up several meters into the air, sending wreckage in all directions.

Not long after, police and firefighters arrived to extinguish the flames while Batman — concealed in the shadows — watched everything from atop the shipping containers on the other side of the street, unaware that another mysterious figure was studying him from afar.

* * *

Wearing pajamas and a robe, Alfred went down to the cave when the first lights of dawn shone on the horizon. He found Bruce in casual clothes, looking up at a monitor attentively as if he was searching for something very important.

"I presume you haven't got some rest yet. Would you care for some tea?" the butler asked.

"Not now, Alfred. Thanks," Bruce answered laconically without taking his eyes off his screen. Not a muscle twitched in his face.

He had headed home early — just a bit after one. Ever since he had been in front of the computer, searching databases, comparing fingerprints and analyzing security footage.

"_It's always useful to know as much as possible about your enemy," _Rā's al Ghul had once told him. Now, he put all his knowledge and resources in practice.

"No need for needlework?" Alfred asked smoothly, although there was a tiny pinch of anxiety in his voice.

Bruce finally turned to him. "Nop. Although the scuzzballs with whom I crossed paths will need more than a couple of stitches... and perhaps a dentist." He flashed a sarcastic grin as the last words were spoken.

Alfred's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Any clues leading to Bane?"

"While checking a possible case of robbery I accidentally found out the guys worked for him."

"Whom works for Daggett apparently," the elderly man added with concern.

"Yep, but do you wanna know the weirdest part of it all?" Bruce asked, tiredness reflected in his eyes. "They broke and entered a Wayne Enterprises' storage facility to plant a bomb there. I'm afraid they didn't even know what they were delivering. The building was blown up and I nearly didn't escape uninjured."

"Wondering what he might achieve by sabotaging a corporation in which he's a majority shareholder."

_Damned if I know_, the billionaire thought, scowling to then say, "The bottom of this issue is still a long way off. I've found a load of huge heavy weapons inside the building. I haven't the slightest idea what they were doing there."

"Well, at least the bad guys are still breathing. Hopefully they are going to talk soon," Alfred observed. "Have you formed an hypothesis yet?"

"It looks like our shady tycoon is expanding his business to Organized Crime Ltd. and hired a mercenary to help him to control Gotham's underworld. I could be wrong though. I could have missed something."

"They say there's always a first time for everything."

Bruce slumped further into the chair and said, "Yeah, but I can't afford the luxury of it."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	10. 10 Masquerade

**AN:** Cookies for everyone who gets the references regarding several characters from the DC Comics universe (more precisely the Batverse). And Happy Easter to all those who celebrate it.

Please, don't forget to read and review.

* * *

**10\. MASQUERADE**

"_Behind this mask there is more than just flesh. Beneath this mask there is an idea... and ideas are bulletproof." ― Alan Moore, V for Vendetta_

After just a few hours of sleep, Bruce spent the day working out in the cave and reviewing the evidence he had put together in the early hours of that day.

A quick phone call to Fox kept him updated on the company's latest developments. Bruce was worried that John Daggett, being who he was, might stab them in the back. But there were occult forces that even his brilliant CEO could not have the power to control. Lucius just advised him to stay on Natalia St. Dumas' good side and once again recalled that everything she touched turned to gold.

He and the financial tycoon could be a bit at cross-purposes but if they both managed to put aside their differences, they could quickly realize that joining forces would benefit them both.

_Great. _Just a bunch of poor excuses for him go to her party.

The day flew past and before Bruce knew it, it was time for him to go to the Charity Ball. However, even now, in his way to Gotham's Museum of Modern Art, his mind stayed restless and he could not focus on anything. He just relied on hoping that a little distraction could be just the thing he needed to calm his mind so he could put the puzzle pieces correctly together.

He turned on the television in the back of the limo and tuned in a business news channel. The skinny newsman with funny voice announced a sharp drop in Wayne Enterprises' shares after a rumor spread stating that Bruce Wayne, as controlling shareholder, was planning to break the company apart and sell off the pieces.

One TV commentator pointed out that this would cause a ripple effect not only in Gotham City but at all locations the conglomerate had subsidiaries. Another one stated that the Wayne name no longer commanded the same consistence, prestige, and respect it once had done.

To make things worse, a mysterious criminal explosion had destroyed an important storage facility of the company, which sparked great speculation about the future of Wayne conglomerate.

Bruce swore violently in frustration. Unsubstantiated news were being sown in the media in order to put his company down. Daggett surely was behind those moves and he could not do much other than appeal to the other major shareholders' discernment and goodwill.

At nine-thirty that night, Alfred pulled the Luxury Bentley Continental black limousine into the driveway of the museum, where dozens of other expensive cars were disgorging their passengers.

Spotlights splashed across the museum's graceful neoclassical façade as throngs of paparazzi lined the red carpet, snapping shots for tomorrow's society columns and websites. Flashes went off incessantly, practically blinding the arriving guests.

The butler glanced into the rearview mirror at Bruce in the backseat.

"Here we are, Master Bruce. Enjoy your evening and don't forget your mask."

Wayne met Alfred's eyes in the rearview mirror with a withering look and mumbled, "I wouldn't dare."

"Don't worry, Master Bruce," Alfred assured him, clearly enjoying the situation. "Takes a little time to get back into the swing of things."

Bruce ignored the butler's teasing. He was in no mood to exchange banter right now. Gritting his teeth in anticipation of the attention he was about to receive, Bruce fit the mask on his face — a replica of a venetian plague doctor mask — and slowly slid off the backseat.

Dozens of lenses swung toward the illustrious stranger, who quietly pressed a button on his wristwatch. All at once, every camera in the vicinity went dead. Frustrated paparazzi clicked uselessly and cursed their equipment. Bruce repressed a smile.

Climbing the steps, he approached the front entrance and handed his invitation to the awestruck greeter at the reception lobby.

She examined thoroughly the piece of cardboard and said, "Right through here, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce entered to find a lavish party in progress. Twinkling white party lights were strung upon the walls and ceilings. Rose petals fell like confetti. Impeccably uniformed waiters and waitresses, wearing black domino masks, moved among the guests with cocktails and canapés.

A jazz band was playing off to the side, under a banner of the TELOS Foundation. The partygoers howled with laughter, talked animatedly and danced. Gotham's A-list, wearing colorful masks along with the rest of their finery, mingled and massed throughout the gallery.

Even Bruce got struck by the ostentation.

Incognito behind his mask, he threaded his way through the crowd with ease, searching for the party hostess. A quick look around revealed a couple of somewhat whimsical guests. To his left, a man wearing a Guy Fawkes' mask was engaged in deep conversation with a small group of invitees.

Further along, on his right side, a strikingly pretty brunette was dressed all in black, wearing a lacy black mask of her own, complete with velvet cat ears. She was sipping champagne and flirting with a young rich twit, whose dark green two-button suit matched with a simple domino mask.

The woman looked vaguely familiar. Bruce searched his memory and recalled her as being one of the many floozies he had hooked up in the past.

He returned to his quest and it took him a moment, but he soon spotted Natalia on the dance floor, sharing a slow dance with a gentleman wearing a Phantom of the Opera mask. She sported a burgundy evening gown and a string of pearls around her neck. A frilly Venetian mask was her only concession to the theme.

Bruce could feel every beat of his heart thundering in anticipation as he approached the waltzing couple. It only confirmed what he had been fiercely denying to himself in the past couple of days: for some inexplicable reason Natalia Saint Dumas called to him on some primal level. Inexplicable because why he would be attracted to someone he barely knew and probably considered him no more than an arrogant ass, he did not have a clue.

_Damn._ He blamed his wayward feelings on the fact that he had not been out with a woman in… How long had it been?

Did not matter. Bruce had no interest in getting involved with anyone — not even the ravishing businesswoman — and went to that party only because of two specific reasons: (1) to make amends with a crucial business partner, once he previously had come off as rude and arrogant; and (2) to please his old butler whose efforts on making him get back out into the world had doubled down in the last few days.

Coming to a halt beside the couple, he spoke over her shoulders, "Mind if I cut in?"

As Nattie turned, Bruce pushed the mask to the top of his head and her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of him. Despite the mask covering half of her face, he noticed she pasted a smile on it that did not reach her eyes. Wayne's heart jolted. She did not look very pleasant.

_What are you doing here? _She did not ask it aloud, but she might as well have.

Nattie's gaze flicked over him from head to toe. Her eyes held curiosity and something else that made him slightly uneasy.

Her voice broke the brief yet uncomfortable silence that followed. "Let's resume it, okay?" she said to her dance partner.

The other man nodded politely and left quietly.

Bruce then closed the distance between the two of them and took Nattie by the waist. Her hand came to his shoulder and their palms connected, skin to skin. Her hands were small, and her skin was soft and warm. He was a little startled by how naturally her body molded to his.

What surprised him even more was the tingling sensation that started in his fingers and worked its way up his arm. Which was more than he could say for this situation, and the odd, longing sensation deep in his gut.

They started to glide gracefully on the dance floor amid the murmur of conversation, under prying eyes that wondered what Gotham's most reclusive son was doing there.

"You don't seem very happy to see me," he observed, the amusement showing in his eyes.

Finally her gaze met his. "I wouldn't say that. Surprised would be a more suitable word," she conceded with a shrug. "I'm glad '_Grumpy Hermit Wayne'_ has came out of hibernation to honor my event with his presence."

Nattie had to admit that she got startled by how much Bruce Wayne had changed in just a couple of days. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart nearly stopped beating altogether when she found the dashing playboy standing by her side as lean and powerful like a phoenix reborn from the ashes.

Last time she had seen him, he had entered the room moving stiffly with the aid of a cane, wearing a rumpled dressing gown and slippers, looking older and scruffier and better suited to retirement than a red-carpet gala.

He gave a genuine chuckle at her reply and for the first time Nattie thought she caught a glimpse of the man he must have been before the pain burrowed in and made a home out of his heart. Even more disturbing was the effect that his soft and masculine laughter had on her. The sound of it was so adorable her knees actually went weak.

Why the heck was she acting like a fangirl who had just barely been introduced to some popstar? Nattie gave herself a swift mental kick for being so silly and uncontrolled. She had to stop thinking like that right now.

"Just following your advice," he said, glancing at her. "Besides this is a very special occasion. After all, how many times in this city does somebody have a benefit for such an outstanding cause and invite all the rich, pretty people?"

His expression was light, neutral, but Nattie could detect a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"Even before you became a recluse, you never seemed to be into these things..." she commented as they kept gliding smoothly across the floor in a perfect fit.

"Perhaps because proceeds usually go to the big fat spread. It's not about charity, it's about feeding the ego of whichever society hag laid this on."

Nattie cocked her head. "Should I be offended?"

"Absolutely not."

"Well, Mr. Wayne, in my party the proceeds will go where they should, because I paid for the big fat spread myself."

"That's very generous of you."

"You have to invest to restore balance to the world."

Bruce grinned boyishly.

"Alfred thinks it isn't too late for me to apologize for my behavior the other night." He sucked in a breath. "I hope I wasn't out of line."

She gave a limp smile. "Apologies accepted. Let's just leave the first impressions behind, shall we?"

"That's fine by me."

"Good. Now tell me about the restorative chemical bath that you immersed yourself in?" she asked, eyeing him curiously.

Bruce's brows suddenly dipped in confusion whilst he tried hard to ignore the soft aroma of her perfume. "Excuse me?"

"You're no longer hobbling on a cane."

"Oh, that! May I tell you a secret?" he asked, grinning unrepentantly. "I have my own fountain of youth in my house's basement."

Nattie laughed, genuine humor for the first time tonight.

"That's going to work for now but I'm looking forward for the day you'll give me a better explanation."

He swung a lazy glance at her while speaking, "You're a little relentless, aren't you?"

"Of course," Nattie replied. "That's how I get what I want."

Bruce chuckled at her answer. He had not played that game in years, but it did not mean he had forgotten how.

"And you always get what you want, don't you?"

"Always," she spoke seriously, looking up at him. Bruce was instantly and equally smitten as they lock eyes.

"May I ask you a personal question?" He suddenly asked, his dark hazel gaze studying her.

"Others have tried and failed."

'_Night And Day' _ended and the jazz band switched the song to '_Can't We Be Friends?'._

Bruce looked at the rich folks strolling and dancing around and sighed. "Don't you ever get bored doing this?" he asked her.

Nattie blinked, not fully understanding the nature of that question. "Doing what?"

He motioned his head toward the ostentatious display of wealth and extravagance.

"Promoting charity events, dealing with hypocrites, pretending you enjoy every moment being here."

She bristled at that. Her eyes flashed darkly. She considered giving a naughty answer, but she thought it would not sound very mature of her part.

"I can't say I ever thought of it that way," Nattie said, struggling to maintain a neutral tone. She tilted her head to one side consideringly. "Nope. Doesn't bore me at all. I do what I have to do."

"But it's not what you wanted to do, is it?" Bruce insisted.

"How can you know what I want if you don't even really know me?" she challenged, with a slightly outraged expression.

Bruce looked down at her, casting a close look to her shiny hair. He put a hand under her chin and lifted her face so he could look straight into her striking blue-gray eyes.

"I've learned all I needed to know about you from the first time I saw you. All the rest are just details." His mouth turned up in a cocky smile.

The hint of sexual challenge in his voice surprised her. For a moment, Nattie considered pulling away from him. The flood of attraction that raced through her was more than she could handle.

But before she could take any decision, he continued softly, "I know you're lonely but also kind and generous and loyal to your origins. And I think you're so engaged in changing the lives of others because deep down you want to change your own life. You're tired of using your mask."

Nattie swallowed hard. How he could see her very soul so well remained a mystery to her.

"How do you see that?" The torment in her voice only barely controlled.

"Because it's what I see when I look in the mirror," Bruce offered candidly. For the life of him, he had no idea where those words came from, only that he meant them.

Nattie let out a breath she did not know she was holding until now. He sounded so honest that she doubted he was just putting on an act, which made things even more difficult for her.

"So, the eccentric billionaire is supposed to be someone else, huh?" she guessed, looking away from his intense gaze.

"In life we all wear masks, Ms. St. Dumas. Either to disguise our true intentions, to hide our sins or to free our soul."

"Well, the thing about masks is that when you spend too much time behind one, it becomes your real self. Don't you think so?" she countered.

"Maybe."

She leaned over and whispered in his ear, "However, I must warn you that you're wrong about this not being my true face. What you see is what you get. There are no false pretenses or ulterior motives in what I do."

He had no reason to not believe her. Nattie's breath tickled his ear and the scent of her flowery perfume filled him with pleasure. It almost made him calm. Except for the fact that it also got his blood boiling — in a very uncomfortable way since there was nothing he could do about it.

She continued, only this time facing him, "At the risk of sounding naive, how can I turn my back on a chance to make difference in the lives of so many people? I created the TELOS Foundation after my husband died. To celebrate the way he lived, not dwell on how he died. I believe that when we lose someone we love, we have the obligation to honor their memory. I don't care about the obstacles I have to overcome to fulfill my mission."

The words sounded like they carried heavier meaning and Bruce recognized himself — at least partially — in them. Then he looked down curiously.

She frowned at that. "Something wrong?"

"You're… leading."

A slow smile curved the corner of her mouth. "Does that bother you?"

His head tipped to the side, his smoky eyes raking her with an appreciative gaze. "Not at all. I like women who—"

Whatever Bruce would tell it remained hanging in the air as the conversation was suddenly interrupted by the sound of gunfire and shouting, and then darkness.

* * *

Few moments earlier, a large black truck with the logo of a well known catering service pulled into the museum's rear entrance. A security guard checked the credentials of the driver and his companion. When he had verified that they were genuine, he entered a code in the keypad, allowing the main gate to slide open, and motioned them through.

The truck backed into a large loading yard and two men in dark blue uniforms climbed out the vehicle and set masks over their heads. They then opened the back doors, freeing up at least half a dozen of other masked men dressed in tactical gear, carrying automatic weapons. The last of them was Bane.

As soon as the armed men headed for what appeared to be some kind of butler's pantry, one of the event organizers emerged, saying aloud, "Hey, what the—" His eyes went wide and his question was interrupted as Bane lifted the man above his head and hurled him into the walls with rapidfire lethality.

The goons continued down the hallway, dispatching everyone who crossed their path with ruthless efficiency until they reached the Great Hall where the celebration was taking place.

A thug wearing a red hood helmet pulled out his weapon and fired into the lights, throwing the room in semi-darkness, just a few decorative candles remained lit. The dance floor erupted into a frenzy instantly. The band stopped playing and the crowd started to scream, all at the same time the mercenaries sauntered among the guests.

An imposing figure advanced slowly onto the stage. He was intimidating: almost seven feet tall, with an enormous chest and shoulders, a narrow waist, and thick legs. His nose and mouth were covered by some kind of breathing mask. Tubes curled from the sides and reentered the mask at the back of the neck.

Bruce automatically took Nattie's hand in his own and entered in full-alert mode, realizing those masked men were part of Bane's underground militia. He quickly analysed his options and tried to find way to get out of here inconspicuously, as fast as possible.

Meanwhile a heavyset male guest — probably someone with advanced military background given the way he acted — tried to stop the man with the freaky rubber gas mask only to be caught in a headlock by the assaulter, who snapped his neck and tossed him onto the floor. Terrified people gasped out loud at the sight of it.

Immediately afterwards, a private security guard came up amid the chaos, his weapon aiming at Bane, who disarmed him extremely easily and slammed his fist into his face, driving shards of bone and cartilage into his brain.

Bane's goal was simple: inflict as much damage as he could as quickly and efficiently as possible. Despite his muscular frame, he moved with the speed and ferocity of a wild animal.

All of sudden an automatic pistol was pointed at Nattie's head, hammer cocked. Reflexes took over as she held up her hands, palms out, in a nonthreatening gesture. She exchanged a glance with Bruce, who appeared to be fighting the urge to step in and wrest the gun from the other's man hand. She then gave him a barely perceptible shake of the head to warn him off.

The rough gunman, hidden under a fearsome black mask, howled, "Up against the wall, everybody! You better move! Move!"

Under Bane's watchful eye, Bruce and Nattie were herded back against the wall with the others. The partygoers instantly began stripping off their jewelry, taking out wallets, mobile phones, etc. as the mercenaries passed by with gunny sacks.

Bane took the microphone and said with his muffled voice, "Ladies. Gentlemen. The storm has come. A wave of vengeance aimed at the few who've left so little for so many. We're nothing but the evolution of the weak and oppressed this city has forgotten for so long. Our mission is to wash away the greedy, to restore the balance of justice. Gotham shall not die with the old and the powerful holding it back."

His eyes searched the crowd and locked with Wayne's gaze, whose face was set, eyes steely, staring at him. He noticed when Bruce's jaw twitched in a visibly sign of anger.

_Enjoy what little time you have left, traitor_, Bane thought. _Your days are almost over._

A gunman with a white owl mask moved down the line to Nattie. He looked her up and down predatorily as she stared back in defiance. His fingers slowly reached up to grip her necklace, but before he could touch it, she smashed his hand, calling on angrily, "No!"

Just as quickly, the man thrust his arm back, the barrel of his gun pressing up her chin. Her eyes were welded shut with fear.

Suddenly, Bruce's fist met the man's jaw in full swing. During the struggle, a shot was accidentally fired into the ceiling, causing more screams to fill the air. The masked hoodlum stumbled back with a thud as another one lunged at Bruce, bashing him in the face with the gunny sack filled with jewelry, sending him knocked backward.

"Bruce!" Nattie shouted desperately and moved to reach him, but the man in the owl mask caught her by the arm to stop her. He curled his fingers around her pearl necklace and yanked and the necklace broke. Pearls spilled past Nattie's face and clattered lightly on the floor as Bruce watched everything as if in slow motion. The image of pearls spilling over the floor triggered flashbacks from the night of his parents' deaths.

By now, sirens could be heard outside, growing louder by the minute. Bane did not look concerned.

"Time to go mobile," he declared quietly to his minions.

Nattie nervously shifted her gaze from the mercenary leader to where Bruce was lying down just a few seconds ago. To her surprise, he was gone. Her eyes frantically scanned the crowd but there was no sign of him.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	11. 11 Out Of Shadows

**AN: **First of all, thank you for everyone who's following this story and supporting by reviewing.

This chapter is full of action. It's very similar to the movie version but with the appropriate changes that I judged required. There's no stealing of Wayne's fingerprints and no Catwoman. So Bruce's gonna have to figure a way to find Bane's lair all by himself, since he has no one to help him with that.

Our main villain is setting his plan of revenge into action. As you'll notice later on (if you guys hasn't yet), he manipulates people and situations in favour of his own hidden agenda. Even his major allies are just pawns in a bigger game.

Fans of Nattie's character, please, don't be mad on me! Cuz she's not gonna show up for two or three chapters (including this one). The good news is when she comes back, she'll be back in full force.

* * *

**11\. OUT OF SHADOWS**

A couple of patrol cars screeched in front of the museum, their sirens squealing loudly. When the police officers jumped out of their cars, a frantic-looking man in a suit ran toward them, holding up a laminated ID.

"I see you're in charge of security for the place," Sgt. Ken Akimoto said. "We're responding to a call of a robbery at gunpoint..."

"No!" the security chief exclaimed. "It's not a simple robbery. There are hostages in there. About half-a-dozen armed to the teeth men are threatening the guests."

Sgt. Akimoto and Lt. Ron Probson glanced at each other. Without flinching, Akimoto removed his pistol from his holster and, with the others officers' aid, ordered civilians away from the museum's block as Probson radioed for backup, "We've got a hostage situation at the MoMA. Asking for reinforcements right now."

Just a few moments later, the GCPD and the SWAT arrived in full force at the Diamond District — dozens of cars, a fire engine and a couple of ambulances, and dozens and dozens of officers in full combat gear, carrying M-16's and sniper rifles —, blocking every single side of the imposing building.

Peter Foley piled out of an unmarked van, accompanied by Lt. Essen, and met Commander Allen — leader of the special anti-terrorism unit — to get a preliminary report.

"Has anyone been hurt?" the Deputy Commissioner asked.

"Dunno for sure," Allen informed him. "The place's locked down. There are about six perps inside, maybe more. All of them seemingly with military training."

"You hear anything inside?" This time the question came from the blonde Lieutenant.

"No one has, as far as I could tell. But with all the noise outside, I can't really be sure."

As if on cue, one spotlighted object appeared in the dark sky and the sounds of the GCCN helicopter grew louder.

Foley ranked his hands through his hair and blew out a frustrated breath, before speaking again, "Have they made any contact yet?"

"No," Allen answered succinctly. Then, he turned to his men and shouted, "Get the barriers up! No more in and out on this street!"

Wedge-shaped metal barricades rose up at the mouth of the street to cordon off the block with quick efficiency. They had been installed throughout the city's central area after the Joker's reign of terror, intended to stop any truck bombs from crashing into key buildings. A police sniper peered through a thermal scope, watching the door. Six large heat signatures bloomed, too large to be people.

"I've got something!" one sniper called out.

Suddenly, the museum's front door blew open. Everyone reacted quickly and guns were pointed at the door. But what came out from inside the building were the masked hostages holding their hands up, running in panic.

Some SWATs lowered their weapons, but shortly after a ferocious roar came from inside the museum and six high-speed motorcycles raced out the building, jumping the front steps to touch down on the pavement in front of Allen and his men. Terrified hostages could be seen strapped to the rear of the bikes.

Revving their engines, the bikes lept the ramp-like barricades, causing the SWATs to scatter and the cops to scramble to pull their vehicles out to give chase, even as the failed barriers retracted back into the pavement.

Allen swore loudly.

Breaking every speed limit in the book, the bikes sped away into the night, waving through other vehicles, causing a massive confusion in the traffic flow and several accidents while some hostages were ruthlessly released along the way.

A black-and-white cruiser fell in behind the fleeing bikes. A gumball light flashed atop the car. Its siren screamed like a banshee.

A rookie, Officer Carlos Alvarez had never been in a high-speed chase before. He gripped the steering wheel tightly while flooring the gas pedal. As far as he could tell, he and his partner were leading the chase. His heart pounded with excitement. If they were lucky, they might even be the ones to capture the fugitives.

"Shoot the tires!" he shouted.

His partner, a twenty-year veteran named Stan Merkel, drew his gun and leaned out the passenger-side window. He tried to get a bike in his sights, but balked at the expression of the petrified hostage clinging to the rear of the bike.

Merkel shook his head. "No shot!"

The deputy commissioner's voice blared from the cruiser's radio.

"Back off," he ordered. "They've got hostages."

The bikes vanished into a midtown tunnel. The cruiser followed them into the tunnel, maintaining a safe distance. Fluorescent lights, mounted in the ceiling, lit up the tunnel — at least at first. To his surprise, Alvarez saw his rear-view mirror go dark.

"What's going on with the lights?"

The veteran cop glanced back. A wave of darkness seemed to be advancing through the tunnel, extinguishing every light it encountered. Not just the overhead lights, but also the headlights of every oncoming vehicle blinked out abruptly.

Then the darkness reached them, causing their lights, sirens and engine to die off. And, out of the silence, a dark shape roared past at high speed. An ebony cape flapped behind it.

Merkel's jaw dropped. "It can't be…"

"The hell was that?!" Alvarez exclaimed. He had no idea what was happening.

"Oh, boy," the veteran cop said. "You're in for a show tonight, son."

The dirtbikes went on through the tunnel, heading toward the next highway.

The guy in the red hood helmet, who was taking up the rear of the cortege, looked back over his shoulder and saw the lights exploding behind him, one by one, throwing the tunnel into darkness. He frowned, puzzled, uncertain about who or what was chasing them.

All at once, the bike's engine choked and died. The tunnel lights flashed and then were gone again. Emergency light beacons lit up, but they were dim and everything was cast in shadow.

Swearing, he worked the throttle, but it was no good. Seeing a chance, the hostage behind him undid his straps and leapt from the back of the bike. Hitting the concrete, the man in tux rolled to the side of the pavement and clambered to his feet.

"Help!" he shouted. "Somebody, help me!"

The henchman drew his pistol, but before he could do anything, something — or rather, someone — jerked him out of the seat violently, sending him to the ground with a shout of pain. His gun slipped from his grasp. His bike toppled over, throwing up sparks as it skidded across the lanes.

The last thing the guy in red hood helmet remembered before completely losing consciousness was seeing an armored figure leaning low atop a customized black motorcycle.

Batman pulled over the Bat-Pod, sat up and drew out some sort of weapon — a EMP rifle. The muzzle of the futurist device glowed a luminous shade of blue just before he shoot, and then an electronic tone sounded, releasing an electromagnetic pulse intended to disable the next fleeing bikes ahead.

One after the other, the engine of the escapees' motorcycles suddenly died, allowing Batman to free most of the hostages and subdue Bane's men, so they could be captured by the authorities. At this point, only two dirtbikes remained in the game.

After reloading the pulse device, Batman leveled the weapon again, but before he could take another shot, rookie Alvarez hit the very expensive EMP rifle with a shot from his gun.

Annoyed, the masked vigilante slowly turned to face the bewildered young cop. Apprised of his imprudence, Alvarez simply said, "Sorry…"

Ignoring the man, Batman hopped on the Bat-Pod and tore toward the tunnel exit, in pursuit of the two remaining bad guys. His midnight cloak spread out behind him, flapping in the wind like the wings of an enormous bat.

"Put that thing away before you hurt yourself!" the veteran officer ordered the rookie. "Get in!"

They both got in the car and sped away, returning to the chase.

* * *

"Let's roll," Foley shouted to the other cops around him and entered the unmarked van whose driver was Sarah Essen. "They've spotted Batman!"

The officers exchanged incredulous glances, wondering if the masked vigilante was really back after all those years. Everyone rushed to their vehicles as fast as they could and raced off towards the direction where he had been sighted.

"Call everyone in," Foley barked into the radio, turning the black van into a mobile command center. "Every patrol car, beat cop — off-duty, too. Call 'em all them in. Close every street. Now!"

The city rushed past them as Essen pushed the patrol car to its limits. The speedometer crept toward three digits. Foley stared out the windows impatiently. He drummed his fingers against the dashboard.

"I'm gonna do what Gordon never could," he predicted.

"What's that?" Sarah asked.

"I'm going to take down the Batman."

Sarah just frowned and remained silent. _What's wrong with men that they think being foolish and arrogant is going to make them look more male than others?_ she asked in thought.

She was not so sure about Batman being a real danger to Gotham, no matter what people said. She was more worried about the felons who had just pulled off such an ambitious strike on the museum.

"Sir, what about the armed robbers?" she asked.

Foley ignored the question.

* * *

All around the city, the GCPD was mobilizing in force. Police cars, vans, and motorbikes flooded the streets, joining the chase. Choppers whirred overhead, their spotlights sweeping the highways below. Even the canine units were being activated.

As the Bat-Pod hurled down the highway, passing beneath at least two overpasses, the last two bikes got out of reach. With the EMP device damaged, Batman would have to eliminate the remaining criminals the old-fashioned way.

At some point, Bane — under a red motorcycle helmet — signaled to his mate and the bikes split up, wagering that so they would have a good chance of eluding the police and Batman. One of the bikes went ahead, still carrying a whimpering hostage on its back, while Bane's made a tight u-turn and accelerated toward the massive procession of police cars.

On his way back he crossed paths with Batman on his pod. Both men exchanged quick glances as they zipped past each other. However, as Bane had anticipated, Batman chose to pursue the bike with the hostage. Compassion had always been his weakness.

Bane smiled behind his mask. The time would come when he would face Rā's al Ghūl's greatest mistake — but not tonight. Everything has its own time.

At high speed, he slipped between two cruisers that were tearing after Batman and jumped up onto a concrete barrier, being completely overlooked by the police force. He then glanced back at the entire GCPD descending on only one man. Right after, he took a shortcut, disappearing under the shadows of an utility tunnel system.

* * *

In one of the Gotham General's rooms, a bemused Commissioner James Gordon watched a TV mounted high on the opposite wall. Still hooked up to machines, he stared at an aerial shot of a cloaked figure racing down the highway astride a vehicle he had not seen in eight years.

A news copter briefly captured the cycle with its searchlight. The masked cyclist was crouched low upon the wheels, tearing up the highway at high speed. Even from a distance, the rider looked an awful lot like a certain legendary Dark Knight.

The breaking news banner along the bottom of the screen read: **RETURN OF THE BATMAN?**

One of Gordon's hand instinctively reached for the remote control to turn up the volume as the other one slightly increased the grip on Barbara's hand.

"Do you think is really him?" the girl asked him.

"I hope so."

* * *

A police chopper reported in to Foley, "One bike's veered off, no hostage."

Foley listened without responding.

"Should we pursue?" the spotter asked via the radio.

"Negative," Foley ordered. "Stay on Batman."

Gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles were white, Sarah spoke up, "But the perp's getting away!"

"Who do you want to catch?" Foley scoffed at Sarah as if the woman was an idiot. "Some robber, or the son of a bitch who killed Harvey Dent?"

Sarah bit down on her tongue to keep from saying something that could put her career at risk.

* * *

The last henchman — under a green motorcycle helmet — was on his own now. He accelerated down the highway and rounded a corner, trying to stay ahead of the Batman. The sobbing hostage, bouncing on the rear of the bike, slowed him down.

Glancing through the rearview mirror, he frowned as he realized Batman was no longer chasing after him. He sighed in relief.

Then he heard a muffled whump and a scuffle behind. Puzzled, he looked back, still in time to see a low-flying dark shape ripping the kidnapped partygoer off the back of the bike. Creeped out, he speeded up his motorcycle even more, passing cars super fast in order to escape.

Ensuring the hostage's safety, Batman allowed the thug to vanish into the night but not without dinging him with a tracer.

Unfortunately, the entire operation left him exposed on a broad road and, in a moment, he was cornered by a veritable host of cops, coming from all directions.

_Time to go_, Batman realized.

Already bathed in the blinding light from the police helicopter directly above him, he jumped on the Bat-Pod and glanced around, taking in the sight of thousands of cars, vans, bikes, and dogs. Multiple sirens screamed along, adding to the din caused by the whirr of the helicopter rotors.

"Step away from the bike!" a voice over a loudspeaker boomed overhead. "You are outnumbered. This is your one warning."

The pod made a turn as Batman scanned the vicinity and paused, looking at the line of stopped traffic. He spotted an empty car transporter below the on-ramp nearby and thought how lucky he was.

Having a nice target, he fired the pod's cannons at the transporter, causing its rear ramp to crash onto the concrete. The Bat-Pod raced toward the truck, mounted the ramp, and used it to jump directly to the on-ramp above.

Weaving through the stalled traffic, Batman fled his pursuers. But the GCPD remained hot on his heels.

* * *

At Daggett's penthouse, he and Stryver were tense, watching the coverage of the pursuit blaring out from the giant TV.

"People aren't saying much — frankly, they're too busy — but all signs suggest that what we're seeing is, in fact, the return of the Batman…" the newscaster informed as Daggett took a long gulp of his scotch, wondering just how much his plan would be affected by these new developments.

"After eight years he has to pick tonight…" he grumbled angrily.

"He's drawing the cops off Bane…" Stryver offered, trying to calm him down.

The other man watched the screen, intrigued, as practically the entire GCPD besieged the Caped Crusader.

_That's true,_ Daggett conceded. _What do I care about Batman? He's not connected to me. Unlike Bane._

Maybe things were actually working out in his favor. That calmed him down.

* * *

Back to the streets, Foley demanded testily, in the passenger seat of the van, "How did you let him go?!"

Over the radio, a cop answered, "He's got a lot of firepower."

The interim commissioner snorted and rolled his eyes in a clear sign of exasperation. "And you don't?! We're not letting one nut with a bad attitude and some fancy gadgets run this town down, you hear me?!"

"He's heading back downtown…" the cop told him.

Foley grinned and said, excited, "Then he's as dumb as he dresses — close it down, gentlemen!"

Sarah turned the van around, joining thousands of police that jockeyed to pursue Batman as he raced back into the downtown area. The Bat-Pod teared along, pursued by a phalanx of cruisers, having a couple of choppers overhead that exposed the Dark Knight to the world.

More cops appeared at the far end of the wide boulevard. Trapped in a vise made up of two oncoming walls of cars, the Bat-Pod felt forced to execute a sharp ninety-degree turn, flipping over in the process, and darted into the sheltering darkness of large blind alley.

Cops cars squealed to a halt, blocking the entrance. The choppers hovered above them, providing air support. It looked like Batman had nowhere left to go.

Sarah hit the brakes at the perimeter of the police lines, sealing the bottleneck. Foley swaggered out of the black van and stalked toward the narrow opening between the buildings.

The blonde Lieutenant quickly followed him.

"Like a rat in a trap," Foley said confidently to the ruck of police that gathered around him. He reached out for a bullhorn which was thrust into his hand. He started to raise it to his lips.

VAROOOOM.

A deafening noise, coming from the alley, drowned out whatever the deputy commissioner intended to say. The assembled cops exchanged puzzled looks. None of them knew what sort of machine could produce such a roar.

"You might have the wrong animal there, sir," Merkel said aloud.

Then spotlights smashed on and a massive dark cyclone roared out of the alley, spinning the choppers sideways. Dual rotors produced a powerful downdraft forcing all the cops to the ground.

Everyone stared in awe at an intimidating matte-black aircraft like nothing they had ever seen before. Overlapping wings caught the air, while shielding grilled metal vents. A transparent windshield offered a glimpse of Batman seated inside a heavily armored cockpit.

The weird craft thundered up over the entire GCPD, taking off into the sky.

Sarah slid up to Foley dryly. She could not resist but ask, "Are you sure that was him?"

Foley glared at her, and thrust the bullhorn into her hands.

* * *

Meanwhile, at the hospital, Gordon watched the TV coverage, showing the exact moment the aircraft rocketed out of the alley. His heart soared with it.

"Police are keeping quiet about the prospect of a return by the Batman, but eyewitness accounts seem the clearly suggests the type of—" the newscaster said.

For the first time in days, the veteran cop smiled.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	12. 12 Nothing Ever Lasts Forever

**AN:** Sorry for the delay. I've been having some trouble posting this chapter. For some reason, FFnet was not uploading the file every time I've tried to. I had to change the browser after a few failed attempts. Just then it worked right.

Now, let´s go to what really interests us here. Just don't forget to read and review, okay?

* * *

**12\. NOTHING EVER LASTS FOREVER**

_"For you were this day in the morn, the best knight in the world; But who should say so now, he shall be a liar, for there is now one better than you." - Sir Thomas Malory, Le Morte D'Arthur _

The last thug managed to escape from Batman and the police and — long after the incident at the museum — his bike was gliding down a dark street close to the Narrows. The man called '_Bird'_ by his comrades was so absorbed in his vanish act he did not notice the Bat-Pod crossing his way. Riderless, the uncanny bike blocked the mercenary, forcing him into a hard braking sequence that resulted in him losing control of his motorcycle.

Shocked, he was sent flying into the air, laying it down across the street. Scratched and bruised, he rolled away from the bike but Batman was on him in an instant. The cloak falling back over his shoulders, the masked vigilante throw a right hook at him hard enough to knock him out senseless.

Still engulfed by darkness, Bird heard the hazy sound of a distant siren wailing, a fluorescent bulb buzzing nearby, and someone shouting at him menacingly.

"Wake up!" the voice sounded like a growl.

Bird groaned loudly, dizzy. He could not discern if it had been hours or merely minutes since Batman had caught him. He just could feel his head pounding and his stomach in knots.

"What… what happened?" he stammered as his eyes fluttered open, only to find out he was hanging upside down, suspended by a wire wrapped around his ankles several stores above the ground.

As soon as realization took him over, he yelled on top of his lungs. Over the screams, Batman lifted the hoodlum up to the top of the building, then grabbed him by his collar and put him standing over the roof. His masked face was only inches away from Bird's.

"Here's how this is gonna work," Batman spoke with chilling calm. "I'm gonna ask you some questions. You're gonna answer them. Otherwise, I'll be very unhappy. Where's Bane?"

The mercenary smirked viciously. "Do you think you scare me more than Bane does? Think again. You have a real nice day now."

Batman seized the other man by his neck, effortlessly holding him up over the eaves.

"Aaargh!" Bird grunted, then coughed and gasped for breath.

"Answer the question," Batman shouted at his prisoner.

"Screw you," the man spat back.

"I'm getting start to loose my patience."

"Let me go!" Bird cried, snotty.

"If you insist..." Batman replied dismissively and released Bird with a push, making him drop twenty feet. The wire that looped around him halted his fall but did not stop his body to hit hard against the concrete wall.

His scream echoed through the night. "No, no, noooo!"

Batman pulled him back up. Breathing heavily, he growled once again, "Where is he?"

Kept upside down, Bird challenged, "I'll die before I'll talk. Kill me, and you shall never get your answer."

The Dark Knight bared his teeth, excited on the prospect of discharging all his anger up that smart-ass.

"There are worse things than death. I can show you a few," he said.

The mercenary chuckled. "Nothing you do tonight will change my mind. But go ahead. Keep hitting me. Let's see who drops first."

A police chopper swept past overhead, continuing the manhunt.

"Damn!" Batman hissed and quickly loosened his grip on the grapple gun, sending Bird into a vertiginous vertical dive. Crying out loud, the man landed in a dumpster five stories below, relatively unharmed, seeing as a pile of trash broke his fall.

The masked vigilante stepped back into the shadows, evading the aircraft's searchlight until it had passed. Then he turned back to the edge of the roof and glanced at the unconscious man lying in the trash. He would survive.

For his dismay, Bane had managed to escape without a trace, completely neglected by the police force. Even though Batman was hungry for answers, he could not afford to waste his time just going out there punching whoever he could, hoping to find out Bane's whereabouts.

In all likelihood, nothing was coming of it. These guys seemed to be instilled with an unquestioning loyalty to their leader; no matter how hard he applied enough pressure, it was unlike someone would break.

Since the GCPD was still hot on his heels, he decided to make a retreat. Right now he needed time to mentally unwind and process everything that happened. One way or the other, he would find out Bane's hideout.

* * *

Across town, John Daggett paced restlessly back and forth across the king-sized living room while Philip Stryver talked on the phone. A television in the corner was tuned to the breaking news story and turned very low.

Stryver put down his cell phone and Daggett stood still, almost holding his breath. Afraid of whatever his right hand would say, he chose to speak before the other man.

"Any news from the museum's heist?" he asked anxiously.

"Bane says the Batman interfered, but the plan is proceeding as expected."

John exhaled dramatically. He then went over to the bar, poured himself a couple fingers of his favorite Scotch, and said, "Is Natalia St. Dumas out of the equation?"

"I wouldn't know to say that," Stryver offered, unsure of his words.

"She better be," Daggett replied after taking a shot of his drink.

Stryver stared at him with a strange expression and said, "Or?"

Daggett turned to face the other man with shark's eyes and an evil smile across his face.

"Or that half-chewed hitman will have me to deal with!" he practically threw out the words.

Stryver shook his head, worried. "You are treading on thin ice there, you know."

"I like to live dangerously." Daggett's big, fat '_I don't give a damn'_ grin carried in the sound of his voice.

"I can tell," Stryver agreed as he rolled his eyes, resignation filling his voice.

Daggett chuckled and quickly changed the subject a bit, "What about the men they arrested?"

"He says, and I quote, 'they would die before talking'."

At that, Daggett relaxed a little more. Bane could probably be trusted where his men were concerned. Lord knows they had pulled off that operation in West Africa without a hitch.

"Where does he find these guys?" he wondered aloud. Without bothering with an answer, he turned on his heel and, before disappearing inside the master bedroom, instructed. "Keep me up to date, will you?"

After closing the double doors behind himself, the powerful businessman addressed a group of flamboyant call girls that awaited him.

"Now… Sorry to keep you ladies waiting. I promise to make up for the lost time," he told them, smiling eagerly, bringing squeals and giggles from the girls.

* * *

Sarah Essen pushed through the door into the observation room at Gotham Central and cast a quick glance at the handcuffed mercenary seated at a desk, visible both through a large two-way mirror and on a video monitor.

The man looked gaunt and pale, but his eyes were dangerously murderous. His hands were folded in front of him. Detective Marcus Driver was sitting opposite him, getting no reaction of whatsoever from the criminal. Two other opp uniforms stood sentinel-like in a corner.

Inside the observation room, Detective Nate Patton — one of the youngest detectives at GCPD — and Chief Mackenzie Bock were just quietly watching Driver's disgraceful attempt of dragging out something from the grumpy goon.

Sarah came to stand close to them, crossing her arms automatically over her chest, and turned to Patton.

"Where's Foley?" she asked.

He looked at her. "In his office, speaking on the phone with the mayor."

"Guess he has a lot to explain since he allowed two punks to get away in order to catch the Batman," she blurted honestly, taking the closest seat available.

"Who's — for all intents and purposes — a masked murderer," Patton retorted nonchalantly.

"Yeah, though this has never been really proven. Anyway, these are the same men who are leaving a trail of corpses through the city drains."

He shook his head as if he was talking to a small child. "We still dunno for sure."

She cocked an eyebrow as she continued, "Hey, a man wearing a weird mask, going by the name of Bane and leading a bunch of armed criminals. Doesn't it ring any bells? That's exactly what Gordon told us…"

Instantly intercepting Sarah's look of stubbornness, Bock pressed a button and spoke into the intercom, "That's enough, detective." Out of microphone range, he added, almost as if he was excusing himself. "They won't give us anything and we don't have time for this."

"What?!"

"What the—?!"

The protests came simultaneously.

All of sudden, the interrogation room's door busted open and Detective Driver stormed in.

"I was about to worm something out of this jerk. Just gimme five more minutes," he insisted.

"These aren't street thugs. They're trained killers," Bock pointed out grimly.

Essen and Driver exchanged a look, defeated.

"They really look like to be incredibly disciplined," the younger man observed.

"As any terrorist cell," Bock stated. "Listen, they're gonna spend the night in the county jail. Tomorrow — I mean, this morning," he said, looking at his watch, his voice flat and resigned, "the guys from the CTU will deal with them, okay? "

Driver let out a breath of frustration yet made no objection. They were already in the wee hours of the morning and everyone was tired. Let the Feds to deal with those terrorists. Sooner or later, one of them would tell the authorities what they need to know.

"Fine by me. I'm an absolute wreck, anyways," Patton said breezily, yawning and stretching his arms up.

Sarah was on her feet in an instant, ready to disagree with the widespread acquiescence. They needed to do something! Foley's only concern was to arrest the Batman. His ego had blinded him to the real priorities, and she doubted he would take any action regarding the criminals who had managed to escape.

"We should be scouring every inch of Gotham's underground, going after their leader…" she began.

"Yeah, over a thousand of miles of tunnels, shafts and galleries, with just a flashlight. Good luck with that, lieutenant," Bock cut her off, scoffing at her naivety.

Patton could not help but chuckle at that.

"You make it sound like you know nothing about how things work around here," the police chief completed, shaking his head. He had caught a note of bitterness in Sarah's voice, probably because she had taken the case personally. Gordon was in the hospital because of these bad guys. Everyone there were upset with what had happened, but they had to stay focused. Rushing things right now would only make them worse.

Under Sarah's pointed stare, he opened the door and walked out briskly, followed by the other two men. As soon as they crossed the jamb, she immediately took her phone from her pocket and started to text a message to Gordon, putting him wise to the last developments.

* * *

Alfred was seated at the computer, studying captured security footage of the assault on the museum, when a booming roar and the glare of high-intensity landing lights penetrated the waterfall that hid the mouth of the cave. A bright white glow shone through the curtain of water, heralding the arrival of Bruce's newest toy.

A wet spray sprinkled Alfred's face as, rotors spinning, the Bat flew into the cave. A pair of slate cubes rose to form a landing pad. The Bat touched down on the cubes.

The canopy opened and Batman emerged from the cockpit. Alfred was relieved to see that he was still in one piece, and in no immediate need of first aid. He had been worried about that.

"Very inconspicuous," the butler observed, brushing water from his suit. "Shall I tell the neighbors you got yourself a new leaf-blower?"

"We bought all the neighbors."

_So we did,_ Alfred recalled. He took Bruce's cowl from him, then the cape, as they walked over a platform walkway. The walkway led to a central hub where the computer console sat.

"Ms. St. Dumas has called twice already asking about you. I took the liberty of telling her that you haven't arrived yet."

That caught Bruce's attention. He came into a halt and looked at the butler. "Is she ok?" he asked with concern.

"All things considered, she sounded to be doing remarkably well," Alfred assured him as he returned the cape and cowl to the closet where they belonged. "Luckily I was able to sustain your sudden disappearance to the fact you've been growing a bit agoraphobic over the last few years."

"Good," Bruce replied flatly, though inside he was relieved that at least he did not have to worry about that.

"From the look of the television coverage, you seem to have your taste for wanton destruction back," Alfred said, pointing to where a monitor, sound muted, was tuned to an all-news channel.

Bruce ignored the gibe. He plucked a few items from his Utility Belt and put them on a desk.

"Collateral damage. Bane has escaped and I couldn't get anything out of his pal. But the night's not a total loss. I put a tracer on the crony's jacket and retrieved this," he said, handing him a basic model of cell phone.

Alfred examined the device thoroughly and gave it back to Bruce.

"There are no numbers in this… no contacts."

"It's a burner," Bruce explained, removing the sim-card out of the back of the mobile. "If I can read this SIM card I may be able to trace the calls back to the source and pinpoint Bane's whereabouts." He hoped that by accessing the data on the card he would narrow the field substantially.

He inserted the SIM card reader into one of the several USB drives of the computer, and then inserted the SIM card into the reader, allowing the appropriate software to do all the hard work.

He then picked up a small, flat, packed case from the desk. He carefully opened it and held up what it looked like a piece of cellophane tape. It beared a fingerprint set he had pulled from the hired gun on the rooftop. He walked to the biometric scanner and placed the piece of tape over the glass front, tapping a number into the keypad.

"Let's just take a closer look at this. See if we can ID him," he said to Alfred, keeping his gaze on the computer.

A couple of minutes later, the results flashed up on the screen, showing there were no matches found.

"Nothing on GCPD arrest database," Alfred stated, staring at the screen and featuring a puzzled expression.

"But I still can crawl every single ID database searching for his match," Bruce replied, manipulating the console. On-screen flashed a mug shot. "Angel Vallelunga. Codenamed Bird."

"That was fast, sir. What do we got?"

"Robbery, guns, assault, more robbery. Served in Afghanistan for a little over a year and had trouble adjusting after coming home. Made his criminal career in Coast City. Did seven years in jail. Came to Gotham last year," Bruce said as he scrolled down Bird's profile page. He scrutinized the data. "Check it out. His name's over a few contractor's licenses, whose record's employer is UniCity Project."

"One of many Daggett Industries subsidiaries."

Bruce met Alfred's eyes and agreed, "Exactly. Bane's being backed by Daggett."

Neither of them liked the sound of that. They already knew there was a link between Daggett and Bane — forged by the West African coup — but what exactly were they trying to accomplish?

"If Bane's being supported by John Daggett all along, this doesn't explain why he would put himself at such showy exposition only to steal some jewellery and at the risk of being caught. He's a well-trained mercenary, not a petty thief. Unless…"

Alfred tensed and Bruce could see he was thinking hard about something. His own mind was racing into gear, full throttle.

"Unless he wanted to send a message," the younger man concluded. "He mentioned something about taking from the rich and powerful and giving to the poor and oppressed. His displeasure seems to be aimed solely to Gotham's elite. But I'm not so sure if this is indeed true. What he's really up to remains a mystery."

Alfred looked him over thoughtfully, putting the pieces together.

Bane was a former member of the League of Shadows. Even though he had been kicked out by Rã's al Ghul, he could be coming for retaliation.

"The killings, the heist… even the warehouse explosion. I have a vague impression that this man and his army are leaving you a trail to follow. They're waiting for you," the butler said with a worried frown on his brow.

Comprehension quickly dawned on Bruce. His expression grew pained for a split second as memories haunted him, then returned to the same blank stone look he had worn before.

"Then I'm going to find them and put an end to this," he replied with a mix of arrogance and resignation before turning his back to Alfred and walking over some kind of folding screen in the corner. He went behind the screen to take off the rest of his suit in private.

Alfred waited until his master changed into his civilian garb and came face to face with him again.

"Do you realize these mercenaries are after your head, sir? You should leave it in the authorities' hands. Take the evidence to them. Just let them do their job," he suggested, exasperated.

Bruce ran his fingers through his hair and countered impatiently, "The police weren't getting it done—"

"Perhaps they would've if you haven't made a sideshow of yourself," the butler snapped back, growing even more frustrated.

Putting it that way, Alfred had a point. Yet Bruce allowed irritation into his voice. "Really, this again?"

"How long do you think Batman's luck can hold? What about when you come up against him. What then?" Alfred thrown in a hopeless attempt to make his employer come to his senses. He then put his hands on Bruce's shoulders, a liberty he rarely had taken in all his years of service to the Wayne family, and called his attention to the ghastly security footage on the main monitor.

"Take a good look," he said. "At his speed, his ferocity, his training. I see the power of belief. Of the fanatic. I see the League of Shadows resurgent."

On the screen, Bane murdered anyone who dared to stop him with terrifying speed and brutality. His lethally effective fighting technique was eerily similar to Batman's, but much more final. Bruce's jaw tightened as he contemplated the footage. He shrugged free of Alfred's hands and reached to switch off the screen.

"Alfred, enough!" Bruce exclaimed, scowling. "Rã's al Ghul was the League of Shadows. And I beat him. If your assumptions are really valid, then Bane's just an ass having sour grapes."

He then strode toward the elevator at a rapid pace, wishing to finally put an end to that quarrel.

Alfred snorted, tired, feeling the weight of age as he had never had before. "This is the wrong move," he argued, insistent. "If you want to go ahead with that, then I will not stand here watching your self-destruction."

Something in the older man's grave tone made Bruce's jaw tighten. He hated that note of finality in the butler's voice. He turned away from the elevator and looked toward Alfred.

"I've sewn you up and set your bones," the older man continued, "but I won't bury you… I've buried enough members of the Wayne family."

"You'd abandon me?" Bruce's voice was hoarse with emotion.

"You see only one end to the life you've chosen. Leaving is all I have to make you understand that there's much more than just spending the rest of your life hiding down in this awful cave, waiting to die," Alfred responded.

The loyal servant knew that losing his parents in such a violent way, then Rachel, had done something to Bruce. It had cut him so deeply he did not think he would ever completely heal. The fear of being hurt again pursued him like a shadow. Still, Alfred hoped that one day his employer would leave all the bitterness behind and would take a new path in his life.

Bruce shook his head.

"All my plans of a life beyond this cave died with Rachel, Alfred," he said sadly. "I can't just move on. She didn't. She couldn't."

_Because Batman failed to save her._

Alfred considered this, then looked away.

"What if she had? What if she wasn't intending to make a life with you?"

Bruce frowned, not seeing the point in speculating.

"What are you talking about? She told me—"

Pennyworth cut him off, "That if Gotham no longer needed a Batman you two could be together. What if, in a moment of epiphany, she'd realized you would never stop needing Batman and decided to move on?"

"There's no way you could know that," Bruce told him. His voice grew a bit harsh.

Alfred shifted uncomfortably, and a strange look came over his face, as if he was wrestling with something till he blurted out, "I know because before she died she'd written a letter, explaining that she'd chosen Harvey Dent over you. And to spare you pain... I burned that letter."

He sighed wearily, as though releasing a heavy load, while Wayne shook his head, torn between shock, fury and confusion. He felt his entire world — everything he had believed for the last eight years — come apart beneath him.

"You're lying!"

Pain crossed Alfred's features. His shoulders slumped down.

"I've never lied to you. Except when I burned Rachel's letter."

Bruce looked at him as if he had never seen the butler before. The elder man's words were a physical blow to the gut.

"How dare you use Rachel to stop me?!" he growled as emotions kept shredding his self-control.

"I'm using the truth, Master Wayne." Alfred's voice quivered. "Maybe it's time we all stopped trying to outsmart the truth and just let it have its day. I'm sorry, but I'm just trying to make you see that every martyr winds up alone and bleeding."

A cold fury erupted inside Bruce, very different from the righteous anger he had directed at crime and criminals for so long. This was much more personal.

"Sorry?!" he rasped. "You expect to destroy my world, then shake hands?!"

Alfred's eyes burned with unshed tears. Still, he managed achingly, "I know it means your hatred. It means losing the person I've cared for ever since I heard his first cries echo through this house." He paused, swallowing the massive lump in his throat. "But it might also mean saving your life. And that is more important."

Bruce glared at him. Calmly, coldly, he said the worst thing he could say, "Goodbye, Alfred."

Even as he said it, Bruce regretted the words. Alfred had goaded him into a quagmire of bitter, unfamiliar emotions, announcing not just his past omissions, but that he was living as well. He felt betrayed and he lashed out.

That being said he spun on his foot and left, not allowing the other man to see how much broken he was right now. He needed some space alone to lick his own wounds and examine his life.

With eyes filled with tears, Alfred watched him go away, straightened with a dignity far beyond he possessed at that moment, and spoke quietly, "Goodbye, Bruce."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	13. 13 Checkmate

**AN: **A big thank you to all my followers and readers. Please, don't forget to post a review after reading. Your feedback is very important to me.

Natalia's fashion style in this chapter:

**Dress:** / / polyv. re / 1e69THS

**Shawl:** / / bit. ly / 1cERBMI

**Shoes: ** / / bit. ly / 1EN11gG

Don't forget to remove the spaces (FFnet don't allow us to put links inside the stories), okay? So, here we go...

* * *

**13\. CHECKMATE**

"_The board is set, the pieces are moving. We come to it at last…" - J. R. R. Tolkien, Gandalf, The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King_

Around ten o'clock of that morning, Lucius Fox's assistant announced that Natalia Saint Dumas was there to have a word with him.

"Send her in," he ordered over the intercom.

Nattie came through the door in her usual elegance, clutching a stack of papers in her hand. She looked anxious and worried.

"Good morning, Ms. St. Dumas. I've heard about what happened last night. Sorry for your party. Are you doing well?" he said, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk which she promptly sat in.

"So far so good," she said with a shrug to then add, "What brings me here today is a far more distressful issue." She then handed him the papers. "I tried to warn you."

It took Lucius a few minutes to understand what he was reading — but as he did, his skin turned cold, his stomach clenched. The full realization hit him like a gunshot to the chest as he stared at the numbers, rapidly doing the calculations in his head. He should have seen it coming, he should have known. The signs were all there, all over, for anyone willing to notice. Yet he chose to ignore them. And the result of his naivety at underestimating the opponent was all right there, in the report file in his hands.

"In the last few days, John Daggett's begun a ferocious programme of buyouts through a dummy corporation he set up. He's been stealthily purchasing stock and the company's assets you put for sale. You know what that means."

Yes, Fox knew. Daggett's moves not would only increase his equity interest percentually, but some of his prerogatives as ownership as well — especially his influence on the company's decisions, policies, and operational procedures, as well as the right to receive dividends.

The son of a gun was pushing Bruce Wayne out of his own family company.

But it was not just that. Although Bruce had his own private funds, most of his money was tied up in stock of Wayne Enterprises. This meant that he could go bankrupt in a blink.

For many years, Wayne maintained a 51% majority ownership/control of the common stock, as the controlling stockholder of Wayne Enterprises. Another 30% of the common stock was in friendly hands of his allies. This allowed for the prevention of any hostile takeover attempts of the company by a corporate raider or nefarious individual, attempting to seek control of the vast Wayne empire.

However, when Wayne Enterprises started plummeting, Lucius was forced to dispose some of the company's assets and issue new shares in order to ensure a new capital injection into the company. But the results were not as good as expected.

The responsibility was solely his, Fox mused; it was his job to look out for Wayne Enterprises' finances and its interests. Right now, he was not doing his job very well.

"Wayne Enterprises is about to fall into the hands of John Daggett," he acknowledged quietly.

Nattie fixed him with a look. "So what are you going to do?"

He tried to think of options and found himself facing nothing but a brick wall. But people scaled walls. He used to as a kid. Maybe there was a solution.

"I… I don't know. Perhaps there's nothing else to be done. Except call for the board."

"A risky choice. Turn on the business newswire."

Fox rummaged around to find the TV remote then did as he was told to do.

"... rumors began to circulate that Wayne Enterprises current chairman and controlling stockholder, Bruce Wayne, is about to announce his intention to break the company into pieces and sell it to the highest bidder…" the presenter announced.

Nattie saw the incredulous look come shooting across Lucius's face as he quickly glanced at the company's stock price at the bottom of the TV screen, revealing that the prices was going down sharply and continuously to an alarming point. Mistrust from the market and the sense of urgency had induced the fall of them. One did not have to be a genius to figure out that a thing was tied to the other, especially when the news sounded a lot like Wayne was deliberately trying to sink his own company.

"This would be enough for the board to make the disposal of Bruce Wayne's shares and vote him out."

"That's total and complete garbage. Mr. Wayne never authorized such a thing. Everyone knows that would devastate Gotham's economy."

She nodded and placed her hand on his arm, trying to mutely tell him it was all right, that she was on her side.

"Look, Mr. Fox, I can't stop spinning the wheel but I believe there's a way out. It's in my best interest that Wayne Enterprises and Gotham City succeed. I have a proposal for you."

Fox sighed, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the city skyscrapers. How much longer was he going to be able to see it? How much longer could he keep his position as CEO of one of the larger and older corporations in the world? It was inevitable to think about that.

"I'm listening," he finally said.

* * *

The doorbell woke him. Bruce rolled over in bed, waiting for Alfred to answer it.

Then he remembered.

He rose and threw on a dressing gown. No breakfast awaited him, and the house somehow seemed colder than it had before. Moving down the corridor toward the front, he called out hesitantly.

"Alfred?"

No answer, which only confirmed what had happened last night. His expression shut down immediately and became a blank mask. Knotting his robe shut, he hurried down the stairs and threw open the door.

Lucius Fox gazed at him with surprise and even alarm.

"Answering your own door?"

"Yes," Bruce said tersely. He did not feel like explaining. Noticing the agitated state of his friend, he asked warily, "Anything's wrong?"

Fox went through the doorway into the entrance hall and handed him a tablet. Bruce took the gadget and looked at the first page.

"Daggett's attempting a hostile takeover of the company," the CEO began as Wayne quickly read through the documents pages. "He's been acquiring the company's assets and gradually purchasing all outstanding shares on the open market."

With dread and a trembling hand, Bruce continued to skim through the reports, trying to understand the implications of what he had just heard. And the consequences were devastating. He looked up from the digital files, reeling from the news.

"But we still own a majority of stock in the company, correct?" he asked with a hint of hope in his voice.

Fox released a long, defeated sigh before saying in his quiet, firm voice, "He's manipulated the stocks and shares at Wayne Enterprises to the point of becoming the controlling shareholder. If he's able to persuade enough major shareholders to vote their proxies in favor of replacing you as Chairman and main controlling stockholder, he might gain control of the company. On paper, you'd be virtually broke."

Bruce looked, by turns, confused and then irritated. "How could you let something like that happen?!" He could not believe that such an intelligent man like Lucius Fox could have fallen into a trap like that.

The older man swallowed hard, a bit ashamed of himself, and tentatively offered an explanation, "If John Daggett is one thing, it's thorough. He's been operating outside the channels, without making an offer of public purchase."

Bruce handed the tablet back to the executive. "The bastard is funding the mercenaries that blew up one of our storehouses the other night and broke into yesterday's fundraiser," he fumed, eyes ablaze.

Lucius blinked rapidly. The seriousness of this information took everything to a whole new level.

"Are you sure about that?" he asked as his brows knit together.

Bruce gave him a pointed stare. "One-hundred percent sure." And then got back to the subject that really mattered most. "What are my options, Lucius?"

"First, we need to protect your personal assets by moving everything into a trust that Daggett can't reach. All I need is you to approve the transfer."

Wayne dragged a hand through his deep brown hair and looked at the other man. "Fine. But even then, it wouldn't prevent him to seize control of the company and its holdings." He instantly zeroed in on something of vital importance. "Damn it! The weapons on Applied Sciences. If he…"

"Applied Sciences is shut up tight, and off the books." Fox assured him. "But the energy project is a different story. Which leads us to Natalia St. Dumas. She has a personal interest in it and is willing to back us up financially."

Then it sunk in, that it was the worst of all possible worst-case scenarios — the prospect of a man like John Daggett, with his connections to Bane, taking control of the mothballed project.

Wayne could not refuse St. Dumas' offer of help, yet he had some objections_._

Gritting his teeth, he muttered, "How?"

"Long term we may be able to prove Daggett infringed the Williams Act, but for now we can outsmart him before he does his next move. If you assign your shares to TELOS Holdings, St. Dumas can overpower him. It's unlikely we couldn't convince the board to get behind her," Fox told him.

Comprehension dawned in his eyes. "In any case, someone's gonna get my family's companies away from me. It's six of one and half a dozen of the other."

Fox nodded in the affirmative, lowering his gaze to the floor.

"Bruce, I know the situation is difficult, I do. And I'm so, so sorry. But I need you to understand we have no one else to turn to. We have to give confidence to investors. TELOS can provide us that," he said with forced cheerfulness.

"I suppose if I were to agree with that, we'll have to show her the reactor."

"I've taken the liberty of fixing up a meeting with her there in…" Fox paused, flicking a glance to the Rolex on his wrist. And then added, "thirty-five minutes. You better get dressed."

* * *

The recycling plant was located across the river from Gotham. Pieces of scrap metal and electronic waste scattered all around, surrounded by a barbed-wire fence, having the view of the city's imposing skyline as backdrop.

Nattie St. Dumas glanced around dubiously as Fox led her from the car. She stepped lightly amidst the piles of junk, avoiding a greasy puddle.

"A rubbish dump, Mr. Fox? I think you should remind Mr. Wayne about the terms of my current offer. This is hardly a time to bluff," she said as he unlocked the front gate.

He turned to face her with a slight enigmatic grin. "Please, bear with me, Ms. St. Dumas."

A derelict-looking portacabin was hidden deep within the junkyard, behind towering heaps of scrap metal. Nothing but a glorified aluminum shed, with poorly maintained siding, the one-story building hardly seemed worth her time.

Then he gestured for her to get inside.

Nattie looked around, studying the derelict office inside the cabin. The room looked to be frozen at least two decades ago. Outdated computer equipment composed the scenario with furniture covered in dust.

"Keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times," Fox warned as he hit a concealed button beneath the desk and, all at once, the entire office turned into an elevator, sinking into the floor. The room tilted like a funhouse ride as it slid diagonally into a massive concrete tunnel that angled beneath the junkyard and toward the river.

Nattie gasped out loud. Her eyes widened in excitement.

"The reactor is beneath the river so that it could be instantly flooded in an event of a security breach," he explained.

A sudden jolt made her lose her balance and stagger a bit. "Wow!"

Fox's hands instantly went to her side to steady her, making sure she would not stumble.

"Sorry. Mr. Wayne's a little too thorough for his own good," he said.

"And by '_thorough'_, I think you mean paranoid."

He chuckled. "After some time you'll get used to it."

The elevator came to a stop deep beneath the river. Marveling at the elaborate security, she stepped out of the '_office'_, only to find a cavernous underground complex that was as large and impressive as the ugly junkyard was not.

Nattie's eyes wandered over the hangar-sized complex, stopping on a black steel sphere in its center. It should be at least five feet in diameter, girded by segmented steel rings that she quickly identified as powerful electromagnets. Blinking green lights and gauges were embedded in the surface of the sphere. Diagonal steel trusses supported the core assembly, suspending it several feet above the floor. An instrument panel was located at the base of the left-hand buttress.

Drainage from the river flowed through wide concrete troughs in the floor.

"Ms. St. Dumas." The deep voice came from behind her, causing her to startle a little, although she managed not to give away with extraordinary mastery honed over the years.

She turned and her gaze settled over Bruce Wayne. His expression was darker than a storm cloud and the image of a powder keg promptly poked at her.

Reaching him, she pasted on a professional yet warm smile and stuck her hand out.

"Just Natalia, please. I think we're past the formalities, don't you?"

He enfolded it in his much larger one, gripping firmly, possessively, and replied, "Then you can call me Bruce. I'm sorry that our last encounter, it went sideways."

Even though the small, crooked smile that tilted up the corner of his sexy mouth said he meant it, her eyebrows arched with a faint touch of skepticism.

"You do? I haven't got that impression from you since you didn't return my calls."

"Well, I've been busy, to put it mildly."

"You shouldn't have risked your life for me last night. You alpha rich guys all think doing crossfit twice a week makes you a superhero. That men could have killed you," she admonished with mock severity.

"And you, my lady," he started, locking his eyes on hers, "were not supposed to risk your life over a mere necklace."

She blinked at at how protective he sounded. His intensity rolled through her, surprising her. When he touched her back, to guide her to the reactor _per se_, electricity seemed to arc between them.

"Yeah, I wasn't. It's good we are all alive and well, then," she said, somewhat disconcerted by the unexpected and dazzling tension between them, as well as the memories that particular jewelry brought to her mind.

Touching the giant metal sphere reverently, Nattie changed the topic adroitly, "I'm glad to know my investment hasn't entirely been for naught. Clean, safe, free energy for an entire city."

For a while, Bruce just watched Nattie looking totally mesmerized by the sight of the cold fusion reactor as a child on Christmas morning.

Despite her attempt to sound casual, he knew, from the soft breathy sound she made and the slight widening of her eyes, that she had felt something zing between them at the moment he had touched her. Just as he also had.

He was was trying his best to resist Natalia St. Dumas. But just one look at her, just one whiff of her delicate feminine perfume was enough to remind him that warm blood — rather than cold ice — still run through his veins. The weirdest thing was that what attracted him to her did not have much to do with her physical attributes, but with her effect. His every sense was clamoring in recognition of something he could not name it.

Bruce wondered if this attraction to Ms. St. Dumas was one more example of the sneaky universe conspiring to ruin his life.

_No._ This was beyond pathetic. He mentally kicked his ass. Thinking of his most important business partner like this was completely unacceptable. The woman brought incredible resourcefulness and negotiating talent to the company. He should not mix business with pleasure. Not ever. End of story.

Nattie must have felt him looking at her, because she turned her gaze to meet his, yanking him out of his insane musings.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but it doesn't work," he said, flipping a switch on the control panel. The core hummed to life, glowing brightly from within. Lit gauges registered a sudden surge of energy.

Then the device went cold. The gauges dropped back to zero.

"Ignition, yes," he stated. "But no chain reaction."

She did not believe him.

"Sounds a lot like a dodgery."

"Try reality."

"You've built a lot of security around a damp squib," she insisted stubbornly, crossing her arms.

He gazed at her stonily, but remained silent. She thought she understood his reticence.

"About three years ago a Vlatavian scientist published a paper on weaponized fusion reactions. One week later this reactor started developing problems…" she commented and then tilted her head aside, pointing to the reactor, "I think the machine works."

Wayne peered at her intently.

"Natalia, if it were operational, it would be like putting a target on Gotham City and I can let that happen. One man's tool is another man's weapon."

"In your mind, perhaps. But there aren't many things you couldn't turn into a weapon. If you ever want to do something great, you have to learn to take risks," she argued.

He frowned, unable to actually deny her statement.

"That's a risk I don't wanna take and that's why I need you to take control of Wayne Enterprises and this reactor. I can't hand all of this on a silver platter over to John Daggett."

"And what you want me to do with it?"

"Nothing. Until we can find a way to guarantee its safety."

"And if we can't?"

He shrugged. "Decommission it. Flood it."

Dismayed by the very idea, her expression was tinged with disbelief. "Destroy our… _baby_?" she said, giving one last look at the machine.

Bruce could not help but frown at her awkward choice of words.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," he said with finality. "I could've flooded this chamber any time in the last three years," he admitted, meeting her gaze directly. "I'm choosing to trust you, Natalia, and that's not the easiest thing for me." Then intense eyes implored her. "Please."

Nattie paused and dropped her gaze to the floor as if examining other possibilities before she ventured to reply.

"I could watch you flounder, Wayne," she started and looked up, piercing him with her brilliant blue eyes. They bore a hint of bitterness, but also some kind of keen understanding. "Heaven knows, I have the right. It would be simply a reward for my patience. But contrary to what most people think, I'm not a greedy and cruel bitch. I shall honor our agreement, but if I judge there's the slightest chance of keeping the project alive, I will."

Bruce nodded, after all, he did not have any other option. "Fair enough."

He did not interpret her words as a clear message of intimidation, but rather as an attempt to put all the cards on the table without misunderstandings. Since there was plenty of money at stake, he tried to see her attitude as justifiable.

Fox chose that moment to approach them. Clearing his throat, he politely intruded on the moment. "Excuse me," he said, "but we have a board meeting to get to."

* * *

Some time later, the three of them entered the boardroom to face the other directors and shareholders. A few pleasantries were passed before everyone settled down. Lucius Fox, as CEO, took his seat at the head of the long oak table, while Bruce Wayne occupied the other end for the first time in years — and possibly for the very last time.

John Daggett looked startled at finding them there. His gaze darted between St. Dumas and Wayne with restrained fury.

This did not go unnoticed by Bruce. Although that jerk had blown up one of Wayne Enterprises store buildings and just had pulled a fast one on the upper echelons of the company, he still believed he had the right to seat among the other shareholders and management members.

Bruce swallowed his desire to do a flying kick right on John's ridiculous face and made a brief mental recap. Daggett had always seemed a little too successful. Either he was extremely lucky — and luck could run out — or he had been shady most of the time.

His last researches led him to believe that Daggett had embezzled his inheritance money and had started numerous lucrative business ventures, which he eventually used as a front for illegal operations in conjunction with his late father's corporation. Small wonder he had associated himself with a man of Bane's caliber.

As if he knew what was going through Bruce's mind, Daggett rose to address the board. He appeared even more arrogant than usual.

"I'd like to point out that we have a non-board member here. Highly irregular, even if it is his family name above the door…"

All eyes turned toward the last surviving Wayne. Douglas Fredericks, one of the board's senior members, piped up, "Bruce Wayne's family built this company."

Another senior director added, "And he himself has run it—"

"—into the ground, sir," Daggett cut him off. He glanced around the table. "Anybody disagree? Check the value of your shares this morning."

Feeling the need to defend his employer, Fox stepped in, "As I recall, share prices dropped due to baseless rumors spread by anonymous sources. Mr. Wayne has nothing to do with that."

Most of those attending the meeting nodded in agreement.

Nattie stood up regally and spoke, "As the new controlling shareholder for the group—"

Daggett immediately interrupted her, "Wait, what?"

With the force of an earthquake, shock reverberated through the board at the sudden news and they started talking at once. Some of them seemed to already know what was going on, while others were as lost as Daggett.

Bruce restrained a laughter to slip from between his lips as John stared at Nattie as if she had two heads rocking on her neck. The whole scene would be comical if it were not so tragic.

"Since when?" Daggett finally managed.

"Since this morning, Mr. Daggett. Didn't you get the memo?" she remind him, drawing a thin, almost malevolent, smile.

Then Daggett quickly glanced around, looking for some support, but there was none to be found.

Nattie's voice interrupted the chatter of the small crowd, "As I was saying, I'd like to invite Mr. Wayne to attend this meeting as a listener. After all, what's at stake here it's his family's legacy. Does someone have something against it?"

About a quarter of those members present, John Daggett included, raised their hands against her motion. However, it became clear that the will of the majority was for Wayne's permanence in the room.

Before a bunch of incredulous stares, she nodded with a smile and exchanged a look with Wayne. "Great!"

"Let's get down to business, then" Fox addressed the room with a commanding voice and everyone paid attention to what he had to say. "As you may already learn from the e-mail I sent you all, TELOS Holdings will make a new capital injection into Wayne Enterprises and seize control of the company."

During the following two hours, the CEO explained the whole transition process, highlighting the fact that the Wayne family had always been there for Gotham and that Wayne Enterprises had helped build the city. All that would keep going under the tutelage of the new controlling company.

On leaving the control over the company by transferring his shares to TELOS Holdings, Wayne would be turned into a minority partner and his equity interest would be diluted to less than 1%.

Daggett could not have won this battle, but he surely gave his contribution to Wayne lose the war.

* * *

Once everyone left, Nattie reentered the boardroom, where Bruce was now standing, gazing out the window.

She surprised him by reaching out and touching his arm gently, bringing him back to reality. A harsh one in which he had just throw away the labor's fruit of his ancestors.

Bruce turned to her. "Thank you." Just two simple yet noteworthy words.

"You shouldn't thank me yet. We won a battle, but not the war. Daggett won't give up that easy."

"But you're the new Chair."

"Acting Chair," Nattie stressed with a smile but it was more a matter of baring her teeth. The smile did not reach her gray blue eyes. "He probably will engage in a proxy fight."

"He's gonna lose it," he replied with absolute certainty in his voice.

Casting a conspiratorial glance at him, she got straight to the point, "Care to join me tonight? I can cook you dinner."

Bruce's stomach lurched at the boldness of her suggestion. Caught off guard, he faltered a bit, "Oh… I…"

This time she allowed herself a dimpled grin. "Don't worry, this is not a date. Just dinner."

He nodded apologetically and managed a slight smile. "Sure. That sounds good."

The way she and Fox had worked the board as a team-up surprised him, and the very truth was that he had never known anyone like Natalia Saint Dumas. Though he hated the overused term, for lack of a better description, she was real. It took only three meetings for him establish that what you saw was what you got. No illusions, no pretenses. Just a sweet, charming, good lady.

Although so much was at stake right now, Bruce was having a very hard time controlling his raging libido and emotions around her. He fought them initially, but he had never met a woman who excited and turned him on while at the same time delighting him in her intelligence and stubbornness.

Maybe this was wrong, and he would regret it at some point. All he knew was that for the past eight years since Rachel died he had barely been able to look at another woman. Not a day passed that he did not ache from missing his childhood sweetheart. But when he was with Nattie he could forget for a while. He finally felt… at peace.

"Good. Get some rest," Nattie suggested and walked away.

"I will try. See you later," he replied as he was left alone with his musings and concerns.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	14. 14 Treachery

**AN:** Sorry guys from the long delay. I've rewritten this chapter and the next countless times and I still find a few issues. They were only one initially but I split them up in order to make them less stuffed. As you may know, English is not my first language so please forgive me for any grammatical error.  
Don't forget to give your feedback and tell me what you think. It's very important to me.

* * *

**14\. TREACHERY **

In one of the many mazelike chambers beneath the city, away from the prying eyes of his militiamen, Bane gently took off the plastic tube that had just fed nutritional formulae into him. For years it had been the least painful way to get all the nutritional intake he needed. The injuries he had suffered in the past prevented him to eat like a normal person and eventually he had come to get used to the odd feeding method.

Leaning slightly on the recliner, he adjusted the dose of his anesthetic once more and mentally started to go over the last developments, rejoicing at the fact that everything was going according to his meticulous plan.

The heist at the gala last night had served for two purposes. First, let Batman and the well-born citizens of Gotham know of his presence and his intentions; and, secondly, used it as a smokescreen for the robbery at a military depot. Both had gone well. He now had a warlike arsenal to make a small nation jealous and was worthy of Batman's attention.

For years Bane had studied the enemy, pointing out weaknesses he might exploit over time. Therefore, he enlisted the aid of the right people, who had no idea that they were just pawns in a much greater game. Their labour, money, network, and infrastructure had been important. Till now.

The time had come to decide what to do with his enemy. Kill him? A death, painful but swift? No. That would destroy this Batman, but with little satisfaction. To conquer the enemy — that was admirable. But to break him, to watch him writhe helplessly, to hear him plead for mercy — that was magnificent. A man who could do that would have cause to fear nothing.

His second-in-command, Barsad, shoved through the plastic transparent curtains that set his lair apart and approached him quietly, bringing him out of his musings.

"Stryver called. His boss wanna see you."

Bane straightened up in the recliner and moved to his feet. "Guess it's time for Mr. Daggett to learn who call the shots." He had a dark gleam in his eyes that Barsad recognized it as vicious anticipation.

"We found Bird. Apparently, Batman beat him senseless and broke a couple of bones."

The robbery at a military depot had been Bird's idea, and Bird had supplied the information they had needed to carry it out. His former career in the military had given him extensive knowledge and contacts that were crucial to the success of their undertaking. It was a shame he had ended up being caught and beaten up pretty bad, but he had full knowledge of the side effects of that risky operation.

"Everything's going our way. It won't be long before _he_ decide to step in," Bane replied easily, not the least bit shaken by the news. He was more than used to abuse the loyalty of his subordinates.

Barsad hesitated, giving him an analytical look. "Haven't you been waiting far too long? You waited years to concoct this plan and to finally put it into action. I thought you'd be a bit more eager to strike the final blow."

Bane jerked one shoulder. "After so many years, you think a couple of days is too long for me to savor the advancement of my revenge?"

"Putting that way…" the other man said, giving a crooked smile.

"If there's one thing I've learned, it's that revenge is a dish best served cold."

Yes, his revenge was thoroughly calculated and cold. As bitterly cold as the lugubrious prison — that sinister fortress in the depths of the globe — he had grown up in. As agonizingly slow as time had sheared past there segregated from the world, enduring his keepers' dehumanizing. As grimly inexorable as the hatred he had nursed all those years for the one who had destroyed all he had ever known as home and family, who had betrayed and murdered the man that had been his rescuer, his father figure and his friend.

Even though Rã's al Ghul himself had excommunicated him from the League of the Shadows, Bane only wished to repay what he considered his debt to the secular organization and to honor the memory of his saviour before he could move on.

He would take away everything the masked vigilante cared about, protractedly, excruciatingly, pulverizing his misguided idealism with him, until he would finally finish his former mentor's work.

Glancing fondly at his brother in arms, Bane informed, "I'll be back before dusk. Keep the tunnels covered."

Barsad nodded in response and watched the masked mercenary leave.

* * *

At John Daggett's penthouse, Phillip Stryver had been pacing like a caged animal for almost forty-five minutes, stopping occasionally to check his watch. Suddenly, his boss bursted in, furious. He slammed the door behind him, and the harsh bang echoed through the apartment.

"How the hell did Natalia St. Dumas get the inside track on the Wayne Board?" he asked to no one in particular. "And most importantly, why that bitch's still walking and breathing and talking? That two-bit hired gun promised me quick results. Where are they?"

As Daggett's number two, Stryver prided himself on always anticipating his boss need and surpassing his expectations, but even he was not ready to placate the wrathful man in front of him.

"Things certainly didn't go as expected—" he tried to offer.

"Oh, the understatement of the year," he sneered hotly. "Where's Bane?!"

The other man opened his mouth to reply, but a deep voice cut him off.

"Speak of the devil…" it said.

Daggett spun around to find Bane standing behind him, his meaty arms crossed atop his chest. Air hissed from the hulking mercenary's mask.

"…and he shall appear."

Daggett clutched his chest, startled by Bane's sudden appearance. Where had the ugly merc come from, and how had he gotten past the penthouse's supposedly first-class security? Regaining control of the situation, he demanded, "What the hell's going on?"

"Everything is proceeding as planned," Bane declared smoothly, making Daggett even angrier.

"Really? You see me running Wayne Enterprises?! You said you'd do whatever it takes to help my company absorb Wayne's in return for my aid in your ventures. I expected more from you than empty promises."

Bane met his tirade with a cool eyed-stare. "You asked me to blackball Bruce Wayne, to take him down. I've lived up to my end of it."

The tycoon's eyes flashed furiously at such audacity as he got in the mercenary's face. "Don't play the smart ass with me. We had a deal. You've got my construction crews working all hours around the city, and for what?"

Bane turned toward Stryver. "Leave us."

"You stay right there!" Daggett ordered. "I'm in charge!"

The masked man put a hand on Daggett's shoulder gently. A hint of amusement showed in his dark eyes.

"Do you feel in charge?" he asked.

It sure did not feel like it at the moment. A chill ran down Daggett's spine. He gulped as Stryver crept out of the room, leaving him alone with Bane. His mouth went dry, and suddenly his palms were sweaty.

Gathering his strength and his frustration, he countered, "I've moved Heaven and Earth to bring you and your jack-boots to Gotham. I've paid you a small fortune…"

"People like you — rich and entitled — all have the same weakness: thinking they're smarter than everyone else. Let all of you underestimate me. That's what got me where I am today."

Daggett stared in horror at Bane's grotesque countenance. He had thought that the infamous mercenary was merely another hired gun — somewhat more expensive than most, yet nothing more. But as he peered into the masked man's pitiless orbs, he finally realized that Bane was working for no one but himself. And he was no mere soldier of fortune.

"You're unhinged," the millionaire hissed.

"I'm Gotham's reckoning," Bane stated, before taking the man's head in his hands with fake kindness. "Come to end the borrowed time you've all been living on… I'm the necessary evil."

He finally ended the discussion, giving a sharp twist of the other man's head with his bare hands. On the steps outside the living room, Stryver flinched as the cracking sound of Daggett's neck filled the room and beyond.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	15. 15 A Dish Best Served Cold

**AN: **I hope this chapter pleases you all. I worked hard on it. Even though I am still not fully satisfied with it, let's move on. Don't forget to post your thoughts.

* * *

**15\. A DISH BEST SERVED COLD**

"_Who seeks revenge wants to force the other side to go through what happened and/or ensure it is not able to repeat the action anymore." - Wikipedia_

At precisely eight o'clock that evening, Bruce arrived at Natalia's door and rang the bell. She lived in a spacious and sleek duplex penthouse overlooking the Sprang River. Large windows offered spectacular views of the river far below, Uptown skyscrapers, and the Aparo Park. The building was a beautiful example of pre-war architecture and was located at one of the most expensive square-feet in town.

After a couple of seconds, the door opened to reveal a very polite, Afro-descendant young man.

"_Bonswa_! You must be _Misye_ Wayne. Come on in," the other man said with a heavy Creole accent, gesturing for him to enter. Bruce nodded slightly and followed him into a sumptuous yet unpretentious room, a testament to the taste and priorities of whom had decorated it. "If you would please to wait in the living room, I shall let _Madam_ St. Dumas know you're here. _Eskize mwen_."

"Thanks," Bruce replied with a grin. As the young man stalked off quietly, he looked about indifferently, swinging the craft package he was holding until a steady staccato on the parquetry floor drew his attention.

Nattie emerged into the room, wearing a sheer butterfly style tunic in royal blue and a pair of black fit jeans. Wedge sandals matching the color of her top and a few inconspicuous pieces of jewelry gave the final touch to her look. Her dark hair slid down her back like a caress and there was virtually no makeup concealing her delicate features. Despite her casualness, Bruce thought she looked more beautiful than ever.

As his eyes traveled down her body discreetly he wondered what secrets were hidden beneath her elegant attire. His hands twitched tightly around the package in an attempt to control his reaction to her closeness.

Damn, he had never had a reaction to a woman like this. Not even…

His half a second's musings were interrupted by her soft voice, "Bruce! Glad you came." She smiled warmly. Those striking blue-gray eyes again, fixed on him.

"Good evening, Natalia," he greeted as she came closer. The subtle scent of fresh neroli assailed him instantly.

Without taking his eyes off her face, he took her hand and raised her fingers to his lips, savouring the way she flushed a bit and how her eyes stared up at him in shock. He liked knowing she was not immune to him.

"I've brought you this. Picked it from my private cellar." He held out the rustic package and Nattie opened it to find a bottle of wine.

"You didn't have to bother, but thank you very much."

"I hope it pairs with tonight's menu."

"Good wine goes with anything," she said, studying the label, pretty sure that wine worthed a small fortune. "Especially a bottle of a 1982 Lafite."

Dressed in an overcoat, the young man — who should be in his early twenties — came back and chimed in, "_Ekselan_ choice, sir."

Nattie turned to her employee and made the official presentation, "Bruce, this is Gaspard Pross. He's my honorary godchild and sometimes takes the place of my PA, or is it the other way round? Anyway, Gaspar, meet Bruce Wayne."

Both men greeted each other with a smile and a polite nod. Gaspar gestured for Nattie to hand over the wine bottle, which she did.

"I'll put it on ice now so that it will be cold by the time the meal will be served," he said confidently, smiling. "And then I'll go my way."

With motherly affection, she touched his arm and said, "Sure, _chérie_. Go home safe and have a good night."

The small gesture did not go unnoticed by Bruce, whose eyebrow went up. It seemed so unlike the ice queen the press loved to tattle on, but then, he was not sure he knew Ms. St Dumas as well as he thought. This evening was presenting itself as an opportunity to know her better.

"_Bon lannwit_, Natalia," Gaspar replied and turned to Wayne, making a small farewell curtsy. "Sir."

Bruce nodded in return and watched the man leave.

"Please sit down anywhere you'd like. May I fix you a drink?" Nattie asked, heading toward a mini-bar.

"I'm fine, thanks," he answered as he settled in, folding one long, muscular leg over the other, looking completely at ease.

She turned her gaze to him, her eyes conveying disappointment. Still, she did not insist and poured herself some brandy. She was not in the habit of drinking hard liquor but right now she was needing a shot to wash away the maelstrom of emotions in her head. Heaven knew how hard it was for her to appear cheerful and civil under such circumstances.

Taking a sip of the fiery liquid, Nattie moved to the couch and took her seat beside him. Oozing a confidence she really did not possess, she rested one arm along the backrest and looked at Bruce with friendly eyes.

"So how's Mr. Pennyworth doing? Enjoying his one-night break, I hope."

Bruce shifted uncomfortably. "Actually, he left. I'm on my own now."

"_Oh non_… I—I'm really sorry to hear that." She seemed genuinely touched by his situation.

He grinned ruefully. "It's just another thing I can add to my list of misfortunes today."

"Suffering builds character," she stated soberly.

He gave her a questioning look. "Did it help to build yours?"

The question caught Nattie completely off guard. She could not think what to say as her heart pounded within her chest. Branding her best poker face, she opted for an evasive answer, "Character is built during the confrontation with our own weakness. Take Gaspar for instance. I first met him few years ago following the 2010 earthquake in Haiti. I went there with a team of TELOS Foundation to provide emergency water and food. That was when a teenager caught my attention amidst all the destruction and chaos."

Meeting his intent gaze, she continued but her voice sounded distant. "He was selfless, smart and proactive, and was helping other kids to find their parents and relatives. All while trying to deal with his own personal drama. He'd just lost his father and a couple of younger siblings. His mother was seriously injured and he didn't know if she would resist. I saw strength in him. Since that day we forged a friendship of sorts. Later on, I brought him to America to attend a prep school. Now he's in his sophomore year at Gotham U."

"Striking story, but you're not in fact answering my question," he persisted, going straight to the point.

Even though Bruce was becoming increasingly convinced that underneath her freezing outer shell she was generous, kind, and considerate, deep inside some instinct kept telling him that he must get watchful around Natalia St. Dumas. Much as she was turning out to be a lot nicer than he ever expected, she still was a woman of many layers, and even more secrets.

He had learned a lot about her in the last few days, and undoubtedly held the opinion that her achievements all had been ones of merit — whether in the business world or the many humanitarian activities she was involved in.

The company she built out of nothing was a venture capital firm, mainly focused on funding projects related to sustainability. But it was also a buyout firm that usually paid a pittance for what was taken, only to then break it down, repackage it, and make a fortune.

Even though the technical term was corporate raider, many people regarded her as a thief, without at least recognizing that those companies had been ruined by mismanagement, overextension, or plain old neglect long before she ever arrived on the scene. She was not responsible for that. Quite the contrary indeed.

Others strongly believed that her benevolent facade had been designed to launder her corporate shark image, insisting that the business missionary was in fact a financial mercenary, managing hedge funds on behalf of those who made the highest bid.

As far as he knew, she was as lonely as he was. A workaholic with no family. No friends. No significant male interest. In fact, he could say she was conspicuously single.

During his investigation, a particular development made him dig deeper. He found a gaping hole in her biography. From the age of thirteen to the age of eighteen, he could not find a shred of information on her. She had not been adopted but also had no longer been in the orphanage's records. He also discovered she had taken a new legal name many years ago, just before she got into college. Bruce assumed that get wiped clean would prevent her from not being accepted by the most closed circles of any respectful society.

In the end, the facts surrounding her personal life were so cloudy it was hard to tell how far she was willing to remain as his ally.

A fleeting smile crossed the generous curve of her lips, making him almost forget what he was thinking about.

"And me thinking I was pretty straightforward," she said, tossing back the last of her drink.

Regaining his senses, his eyes challenged her to stop with the word games. Presuming there was one taking place right now.

"You know what, Ms. St. Dumas, you're an enigma to me. I can't figure what you're up to and I'm still deciding if you're friend or foe."

"Judging by your record, I guess I could say exactly the same about you," she snapped back with a smirk.

"Ouch."

"Even though you try so hard to make everyone think you're an eccentric fop, I feel — no I know — that underneath that swagger, you're intelligent, driven, and also intimidating, which doesn't leave me in a particularly good negotiating position."

He chuckled, resting his warm gaze on her. "Do you think I'm intimidating?"

She nodded and her cheeks creased with a slow and mischievous smile. "And the reverse is also true, isn't it?"

Though without waiting for an answer, Nattie added with brutal accuracy, "That's okay. Fear makes us cautious. I don't expect immediate total compliance. I don't expect you to trust me quite yet. I have to earn that. Hopefully you'll learn to trust me as I in my turn may trust you someday."

Her casual tone signaled him to not make a big deal out of it. Yet, Bruce remained stony-faced and silent, considering the meaning of her words.

At the precise moment the oven timer went off, announcing the main course was ready. Nattie stood up and invited him to follow her into the dining-room. When dinner was served Bruce refused the wine — since he needed to keep his wits tonight —, saying that he was trying to quit the habit of drinking alcohol, but accepted a glass of flavored water instead.

The meal consisted of Greek salad, roasted lamb loins with mustard-herb crust and glazed sweet potatoes with mashed spinach. And for dessert, vanilla _panna cotta_ served with a simple berry sauce.

They spent most of dinner discussing business and their philanthropic projects, and then the conversation ventured into more personal territory.

"So what makes Bruce Wayne tick?" Nattie asked.

"Besides splurging on a save the world project?"

"Yeah." She chuckled. Though she tried to hold them back, the questions tore at her until she could not stop herself from asking, "Do you have a … girlfriend? Or do you have five or six?"

Bruce's eyes snapped up to hers right away.

She laughed at his funny face, the sound wry. "Sorry. Too invasive?"

He cleared his throat. "There's no girlfriend in my life at present," he said sheepishly, hoping it would be enough. For a split second he remembered Alfred and his matchmaking efforts. He missed Rachel, always would, but he would deal with that on his own, without well-meaning interference.

Turning to her, he returned the ball to her court, "What about you? Why there's all sorts of information about the business exploits of the woman who became a financial Midas at very young age but nothing on her private life? Even after the intensive research I've done."

Nattie's startled blue-gray gaze was captured by his easygoing hazel one. "Have you ran a check on me?

"Nothing that isn't readily available," he lied. "Are you outraged?"

"No. More surprised. Actually, it pleases me that you've taken this initiative."

Bruce smiled and leaned forward slightly. "I'm not in the habit of going into situations blind if I can help it."

"We have that in common as well. But something tells me you take the control-slash-prep thing to heights well beyond me."

"Guilt."

"So, in answer to your question, it takes a great deal of effort and foresight on my part to keep my own affairs private."

She looked away from him, and he knew there was something. Bruce rested his chin over his folded hands and looked expectant.

"After my husband Pierre's death, I found myself being the focus of unrelenting interest. And not in a good way. Since then I've been doing my best to not be in the forefront of the media."

"I know the feeling. I grew up in the flashlight of the media, having paparazzi follow my every move, especially after my parents' death."

Nattie's eyes narrowed. "That explains it."

His brow furrowed in confusion. "Explains what?"

"Why you vanished for seven years."

Finally, it dawned on him what she was talking about it. Forming what he hoped was a cool, dismissive expression, he offered part of the truth. "Yeah, I needed some time alone to pull myself together."

She sat down her dessert spoon, looking absently. "We all deal with grief in different ways. And the loss of a parent is…" Her lips went tight with tension before she blurted, "Well, it changes you. When you realize that your ancestors now look to you; that your family's legacy, their continuing works, are solely in your hands."

Recrimination roared through him, telling him he should not push her again, but he was unable to stop himself. "How did you deal with your loss?"

She glanced up at him, striking again by how handsome he was, especially when he was showing authentic interest in her.

"Well…" Nattie bit her lip and then sighed. "I could have left sorrow control my life and spend the rest of it like Miss Havisham," she conceded with a small smile. "Instead, I choose to just move on with my life and focus myself at work. Do I miss him? Absolutely. I've had several years to live with those feelings. I've come to the conclusion a part of my heart will always feel that pain, but I have to keep going."

Bruce's eyes momentarily brightened with suppressed amusement at her astute literary reference. In his case, the shoe surely fit well. In the past eight years, he had turned into a tormented soul, closing himself in his family's estate, becoming totally unattached from the outside world while still mourning the loss of the woman he believed to be the great love of his life. Suddenly he lowered his gaze, self-conscious at his stupidity and selfish behavior for nearly a decade.

"I wish I had your willpower," he whispered. "I had someone, once," he finally confessed. "Her name was Rachel. She was my oldest and best friend. For years I believed we were meant to be together. But I failed to protect her and ended up losing her forever. Unlike you I went for Miss Havisham's path."

Nattie recalled the portrait of a beautiful dark-haired woman sitting on alongside a photo of Wayne's parents. She was right about how much the young DA assistant meant to him. The sadness rendered him immediately human to her and that was the last thing she wanted or needed. To get through the next hours, she needed to keep her guard up.

"If there's one thing I learned through all of this is that we can't just walk away from everything because it's easier than going through the fire. Sometimes fire can burn the hell out of you and you're never the same, but sometimes it just gets rid of all the dead wood and you're left with something new and clean," she concluded softly.

After dessert at the dining room table, they moved to the living room for after-dinner coffee. So far the evening was a huge success, with both being satisfied — albeit for different reasons — with the fact that one had opened up to the other a little tonight. Despite their initial mutual distrust, over that couple of hours they ended up realizing that they had much more in common than they might have thought.

They sat on a huge, comfortable couch, facing each other while enjoying a cup of Italian Espresso. Then Nattie reached over to a side table and picked up a small, gift-wrapped box.

"I've got something for you."

Surprised, Bruce looked at her and quipped, "A copy of '_Dating for Dummies'_?"

She grinned. "Don't know how I haven't thought of that before!" She handed the gift to him. "Here."

Bruce quietly opened the package; his eyes widened with brief surprise as he saw the robin design platinum cufflinks, carved with tiny gemstones that shaped the bird's image.

"Cufflinks? They're exquisite…" He glanced up at her. "Thanks."

"Being the first creature to return after winter, the robin bird is a symbol of new beginnings and of hope. I thought it would fit you well given the current situation," she explained.

Bruce was silent a long, uncomfortable moment. His face set in a fixed stare.

"Thank you for your trust in me," Nattie said, breaking the awkward pause, and then promised, "I'll take care of your parents' legacy."

The corners of his mouth slowly inched up. "Only a fool would doubt your ability to run a company as Wayne Enterprises. I know you don't miss a trick. Now you have your chance, you won't blow it," he said, still staring at her.

Feeling the need to clarify, she said, "What can I say? I'm passionate about what I do..." She paused, chuckling, and then went on, "And I appreciate having my efforts rewarded. It was not easy for me, being a woman, to get where I am now. I've… given up a lot. Which means if I don't succeed at everything, then what was the point?"

"Hmm. Here's to you."

He raised his shot glass of sparkling water. She raised hers and they clinked. They shared one last swig and then Bruce reached out and took the crystal from her hands, setting it and his own aside. Next, he closed the gap between them brazenly.

"I was so wrong about you. I used to think you were just an ice princess. Turns out that's just a mask you wear to keep anyone from seeing the heat that's inside," he said softly, his breath whispering against her face.

Nattie shook her head uncomfortably as she found his lips close to her own, her slender body stiff with tension. "Talking like that sounds like I'm the femme fatale kind of woman — which I'm clearly not."

"I beg to differ," he said softly, and then brought his hand up to her cheek, leaning toward her until his lips gently brushed hers.

Nattie's mouth went dry. Her heart felt as if it was climbing up into her throat at the first touch of his lips against hers. She held herself steady, waiting for it to be over, feeling the tremors go through her, fighting every instinct that urged her to press against him and tempt him on — and on... She tried to force her mind to take control. Bruce's kiss had a power over her that she must fight. But her flesh challenged her, telling her mind that thoughts were irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was the sweetness flooding through her, destroying the common sense that had always ruled her life.

Slowly his lips parted from hers, but she could still feel the warmth of his breath and her eyes went wide with shock as she watched him lift his head and look down at her, gauging her reaction.

It took her several seconds to get her brain to function again. When she was able to speak, she whispered, "What was that for?"

"I wanted to kiss you."

The look in his eyes was dark and intense and she wished she could understand what that meant. But she just knew his hazel orbs were telling her that he had felt her tremble in his arms and knew his power over her. Now nothing could ever be the same. She braced herself — part fearful, part furious, part craving.

"Why?"

Bruce sighed and rolled his eyes. For a woman who fairly blazed with confidence in every walk of life, her hesitation amused him. "Because you're gorgeous, and…" He chuckled. "And to show you I'm not afraid of you, but rather of the sensations you cause deep inside me," he conceded blatantly.

Trying to breathe past the tightness in her chest, Nattie nodded, facing the prospect of being about to lose her assumptions.

But she could not let him put her in the wrong. She could not forget that the very reason she orchestrated payback was because he had asked for it. He had made his bed of thorns and it was only fitting he would be torn apart lying in it.

She had worked hard to get here and she was not going to let anyone derail her. He gave her a power she suspected he had given to only a very few people — the power of trust. Something she would — and had to — take advantage of til the last instant.

And suddenly, a crazy idea crossed her mind. It was an idea as impulsive as absurd but for the sake of her sanity she had to try anyway. No more games. She needed to put an end to that pronto!

"At the risk of sounding like I'm rushing things, we could leave. Tonight. Take my plane. Go anywhere we wanted," she blurted out.

Her proposal brought a frown to Bruce's forehead. It was tempting, he mused, especially after eight lonely years. But then he remembered he had one last mission to fulfill.

He run a hand through his dark hair. "I'd love to, but unfortunately, I have some unfinished business to take care of."

"Mmm. I can only imagine," she mumbled, displeased, feeling it like a fist to her gut.

He took her hand and squeezed her fingers, smiling up at her dreamily. "Someday, perhaps. Not tonight."

Their eyes met, then locked and the skin of his hand tingled where it touched hers. He wanted to kiss her once again. No, he needed to. And he was 99 percent sure she was thinking the same thing.

As if caught in a magnetic pull their bodies began to move in closer, her chin tipped upward, and his head dipped but stopped as soon as his cell phone interrupted them. Nattie jerked back, breaking the spell, and gave him a puzzled look.

He cursed silently while he reluctantly snatched his phone out and checked it. A warning coming directly from the Batcave computer signaled it was time for him to leave. With his jaw clenched, Bruce exploded to his feet and trudged towards the exit, closely followed by a darkly resigned Natalia.

"I've gotta go," he said, a bit breathless, trying to think clearly through the lust and frustration clouding him. "Thanks for everything. It was an evening I'll never forget."

"I'm sure you won't," Nattie mumbled while walking him to the door, then leaned on the door frame as he stepped out onto the posh elevator lobby.

He stood there for a moment looking intently into her eyes, obviously unsure of how to act or what to say to her in that awkward situation. From the look on her face, she felt the same way — perhaps a bit annoyed by the sudden interruption of their interlude. What exactly was the protocol when you had just kissed an amazing girl but you had to rush out soon after to fight crime?

"See you," he said, grinning slightly.

"Have a good night, Mr. Wayne," she replied, holding an enticing smile. It may have been just his impression, but the smile seemed forced, and there was a strange glint in her eyes he could not read.

He stepped into the elevator and left, feeling a weird sensation about her demeanor. It was like he had just been graded and had not passed. The idea troubled him but he put it aside. There were more important things for him to worry about at that instant.

* * *

Once she was alone, Nattie finally let out a breath she did not know she was holding, wondering if she was truly doing the best thing.

Why did Wayne have to appear half human when she wanted him to stay one hundred per cent monster? Why did he make it so hard to keep hating him? Why did he have to challenge and amuse her in a way that no other man — not even her late husband — had ever contrived to do? And just when everything seemed to be working exactly as intended that she could taste it.

Anger bubbled up from beneath her agony. She was angry at herself for having second thoughts, for letting herself be captured by his charms and sweet talk**,** and because she could not go back on her word to _him_.

Nattie closed her eyes and sent up a silent entreaty to the gods. Because if she was ever to accomplish her mission with her sanity minimally intact, she could not allow him get under her skin and needed to remember the reasons why she hated him in the first place. Now, more than ever.

She had to remember that Bruce Wayne was nothing but a dilettante ass with as much blood on his hands as those he fought against. With an ancestry dating back to the Pilgrim-era, he was just a silver-spooner living off the success of his ancestors. He never knew what it was like to truly struggle… for a life, for control, for his next meal.

With a sigh, she went to her quarters and staggered to the bathroom. Once there, she splashed some water on her face and met her reflection in the mirror over the sink, steeling her impassive pale expression.

"Put yourself together," she chastised herself out loud. But shortly after her brow cracked and she collapsed over the toilet, puking up every shred of the stony facade she had been holding, revealing the raw anguish and self-doubt that was plaguing her. When she was finally through retching, she sat on the cold floor and leaned against the wall, red-faced and heaving as tears started to threaten.

Moments later, Nattie took a deep breath and managed to stand up. She rinsed out her mouth and then hurried to pack a suitcase. She grabbed just a few essentials, her hands still shaking slightly. She obviously could not trust her own emotions right now but had to make some calls. Just a few last minute resolutions and she would be done.

She would get through this. She just had to.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	16. 16 Trapped

**AN:** Thanks to everyone who continues following this story. This chapter is pretty much based on the events showed in the movie with a few modifications. Enjoy it and don't forget to read and review, please.

* * *

**16\. TRAPPED**

"_No two people can be half an hour together, but one shall acquire an evident superiority over the other." - Samuel Johnson_

Later that evening, Bruce strode into the study and took the hidden elevator down to the Batcave. Once there, he dropped down in a chair and looked up at the computer's main monitor. The screen displayed a map of Gotham City. Near one of its edges, a red quadrangle flashed, signaling an area bounded.

Previously, in possession of Bird's phone info, he had cross-checked data from multiple spots to delimitate Bane's likely location and now he had its result. It was an area close to an abandoned non-operational subway station. As the city was built on a network of access tunnels, most of them sealed up years ago, Bane and his army would probably be housed underground — just like Gordon had described in his feverish delirium — away from the police's reach.

With that in mind, Bruce walked over to the locked transparent closet that had come up out of the ground, where his working clothes waited for him, and picked up the cowl from the shelf. Soon after he became Batman.

* * *

A full moon had settled in the dark autumn sky, lording it over a host of attendant stars. Standing on the top of a 40 story crane, Batman surveyed Gotham at night, his cape swinging in the wind. Up there he was at one remove, away from it all.

He tried to concentrate on his mission, but for some reason all he could do was rerun the last events of his life in his head — Alfred's departure, the loss of his company and, of course, the dinner with Natalia.

There had been a lot of tension between him and the female business tycoon initially but Bruce could not help avowing that he was totally gone on her. She was like a breath of fresh air in a stale room, a candle glowing in a dark cave. And if all went well tonight, he might, well…

It was then his train of thought were broken by an incessant beeping coming from his wrist-wearable computer. Bird's tracer. It was moving again.

Few minutes later, Batman stealthily landed his stylish aircraft in a safe and discreet spot. Still getting a strong signal of the tracer, he moved down to a dark service tunnel, which was a branch of the main network.

Peering around, he descended deeper beneath the city, leaving the subway system behind as he treaded through a labyrinth of forgotten utility tunnels. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling. Rats scurried away. Water dripped down the walls. The acrid smell stung his nostrils. The whole scenario was the perfect hideout for a gang of malicious rats.

Suddenly he frozen, sensing danger. It looked like he was not the first one here, since it did not take too long for the sound of footsteps and voices to echo up ahead, warning him he should find a spot where he could stake that place out unnoticed.

A small squad, all dressed in paramilitary attire, were doing some type of exploration of their equipment, exchanging and mounting heavy arms, making it clear that these were not maintenance workers, nor were they ordinary thugs.

He could tell they did not expect to find anything for they made a break on patrol and lowered their guard. Considering his options, Batman bide his time, his fingers already removing a small, bat-shaped dart from beneath his cloak. He snapped it up at the single lightbulb, and as the bulb shattered the thugs swore out loud, startled.

"What the crap!"

Batman's eyes are covered with the night lenses that were a part of his mask. So he used his own advantage of surprise and launch himself against them. Confused and scared, all the mercs charged at once — a mistake, because they got in each other's way, enabling Batman to attack, using his fists, his knees, the edges of his gloved hands and the heels of his stout boots. The fight was hard and unrelenting, brutal kicks and punches, coming from hands that struck silently from the darkness, connected with the sickening sound of broken bones.

Then someone lit a lighter and they quickly saw four goons sprawled out on the floor knocked out cold as a large figure moved like a ghost before being engulfed by the shade again. With guns blazing, the still standing men scanned the dimly-lit tunnel, moving swiftly and silently.

"Who's there?" the leader mercenary demanded.

Batman dropped from the ceiling, hanging upside-down like the creature that was his namesake.

"Me," he growled.

The startled soldier of fortune did not even have time to raise his weapon before the hanging wraith slammed into him like a wave of darkness, and then vanished back into the shadows. Caught by surprise, the other gunmen opened fire. Muzzle flares lit up the murky tunnel, and bullets blasted away at the ceiling.

The echoes were deafening now.

One of the hired guns raced along the tunnel and darted around a corner, only to feel powerful hands grab onto his shoulders and yank him up into the dark. His terrified scream was cut off abruptly and his weapon clattered to the floor.

The remaining hirelings followed the screaming sounds. Another blaze of light flashed. A grappling line yanked one man off his feet, so that his head smacked against the hard stone floor. An expert jab to a crucial nerve center dropped another man to the floor. The guns went silent, replaced by echoing shouts and bone-crunching thuds.

And so, the shadowy figure picked off the entire patrol, one by one, until there was only the last goon wandering through the chilling corridors. Quickly an arm slipped around his neck from behind and yanked him off his feet.

Stepping into the dim light, the Caped Crusader managed to disarm him in one blow, violently grabbing his wrist with one hand and his collar with the other, wrenching his semi-automatic shotgun away. Next he loaded the merc on to his back and then lifted and twisted, tossing the man over his shoulder and then onto the floor.

The mercenary groaned, "Oh, freak!"

Realizing that he could have some trouble finding Bane, Batman figured he would have to make that man talk.

"Where's Bane?" Batman grunted.

"Go to hell!"

The vigilante twisted the other man's wrist, finding that right nerve to press on. "Tell me or I'll crush every bone of your body,"

The perp shrieked again. Batman twisted further, harder.

"Ok, ok, he… he made his home at the east, close to the drainage tunnels. I swear it's all I know."

"If you're lying, I'll break the other one."

"The other one?" the thug asked, confused, but then his answer came in the shape of more pressure on his wrist until it was dislocated. The man was left screaming in pain as Batman continued his hunt.

Checking the perimeter, he moved like a ghost through the eastward tunnels, from one defensive position to another, up to reach what it seemed a long metal catwalk. The shadows were too deep for him to find details in his surroundings, but he heard run-off water rushing beneath him like an underground river. The lack of odor indicated that the water had been purified.

Just few steps further, Batman heard a sound and looked back toward the entrance. Suddenly a heavy steel grate slammed down in front of him, like a portcullis in a medieval fortress. Bright halogen lights flared overhead, exposing a lair hidden deep within the sewers. A small army of mercenaries glared down from various elevated gantries and platforms. The catwalk led between twin waterfalls that poured into a foaming channel one level below. There was some kind of headquarters located beyond the waterfalls — much like in the Batcave.

"At last," a deep voice declared. "I've been wondering how long it would take for you to find me, Mr. Wayne."

Batman turned at the voice in time to see a masked figure emerging from behind the falling curtains of water. He was not surprised that Bane knew his true identity. The man was connected to the League of Shadows, after all — he likely had heard of Bruce Wayne's tangled history with Rā's al Ghūl.

"Figured you'd come running if I stirred up some chaos," Bane said, moving like a mammoth, imposing figure. His broadly-wide shoulders and chest stood out under his military vest. "We got you good, didn't we?"

Batman thought he was being smart how fast he found the mercenary leader. It turned out, he was not. Bane and his gang were waiting for him and he walked right into it. Furious, he stalked over the catwalk, getting close to his opponent. "People are dead and for what? Just to lure me into some kind of a trap?"

"You are here, are you not?" Bane mocked with grave intent.

"I'm gonna take you down."

"Take your shot."

Without hesitation Batman launched himself toward his enemy. His cloak spreading out behind him, he swooped at Bane, drawing back his fist to deliver a knockout blow. His clenched knuckles flew at Bane, who caught it easily with his bare hand, squeezing it until the bones ground together.

Grunting, Batman attempted a gut punch with his other fist, but the mercenary effortlessly blocked the blow. He had, indeed, been trained by Rā's al Ghūl and the League of Shadows.

"Peace has cost you your strength," Bane stated. "Victory has defeated you."

He was quick. Faster and stronger than any opponent Batman had ever faced before — even in his prime — Bane slammed into Batman, knocking him backward. A roundhouse kick swept his legs out from under him, sending him tumbling off the catwalk toward the raging sewers below. Batman hastily extended his cape, using it to glide down on to a concrete ledge located near the base of the waterfalls. He winced in pain, bruised even beneath his protective armor.

The whole situation was proving to be more difficult to address than he expected. This man was not to be underestimated.

Bane clambered after him, swinging down on a chain, while his men watched in disciplined silence, enjoying the duel. Hoping to buy some time, Batman plucked a handful of miniature flash-bangs from his Utility Belt and flung them at his pursuer. The charges went off like firecrackers, producing a disorienting barrage of sparks, noise, and smoke.

Yet Bane did not even flinch.

"Theatricality and deception are powerful agents," he acknowledged, quoting the timeless wisdom of Rā's al Ghūl. "To the uninitiated."

Determined to put Bane on the defensive, Batman lunged at him again, striking out with his fists and boots. Bane effortlessly countered his moves. It was like fighting Rā's again, except that Bane was younger and stronger than their shared mentor. He targeted the weak spots in Batman's body armor, inflicting the maximum pain possible, while seeming to possess no weaknesses of his own.

They broke apart, facing off between the flowing channels. Bane looked like he was just warming up.

"But we are the initiated, aren't we, Bruce? The League of Shadows." He glared at Batman over the bizarre mask that hid the bottom half of his face. Scorn dripped from his voice. Air hissed from the mask. "And you betrayed us…"

"Us?" Batman echoed. "You were excommunicated — from a gang of psychopaths."

Bane rejected the accusation.

"Now I am the League of Shadows," he said, "here to fulfill Rā's al Ghūl's destiny…"

By destroying Gotham?

_Never_, Batman thought. Too many good people — including Rachel and his parents — had worked too hard to make the city a decent place to live. This masked lunatic needed to be stopped — just like the others that had come before him.

"Not a chance," Batman countered shortly. His breath was shallow, and it sounded as if he had to struggle to get the words out.

He hurled himself at his opponent, knocking him onto his back beneath the foaming waterfall, where he hammered Bane's masked face again and again. Clear water cascaded over them, making the Dark Knight's black armor gleam slickly. Any normal thug would already be out cold, but Bane just absorbed the blows until Batman took a moment to catch his breath.

He let up, just for a moment, and Bane's brawny arms shot out like rockets, smashing Batman aside.

The mercenary rose to his feet.

"Even in your weakened state," he said, his voice betraying no hint of the punishment he had received, "you still put up quite a battle." He flexed his own muscles as he advanced. "Admirable. But ultimately, the strongest always prevails."

Breathing hard, Batman realized Bane was right. Eight years of retirement had taken its toll on his endurance and reflexes. He was not the same man who had defeated Rā's al Ghūl nearly a decade ago. That Batman had just begun his career.

A smarter strategy was needed. He flipped a switch on his belt, triggering an EMP that knocked out all the lights, throwing them all into total darkness. Then he retreated into the sheltering blackness. Night-vision lenses in his cowl allowed him to keep an eye on his adversary, who seemed to take the blackout in his stride.

Bane turned slowly, addressing the all-encompassing shadows. He didn't seem worried.

"You think darkness is your ally," Bane said. "But you merely adopted the dark. I was born in it. Formed by it…"

Moving as silently as a ghost, Batman circled, looking for an opening. There had to be some way to bring the other man down. He just needed to strike when and where Bane least expected. And he needed to make it count.

_This could be my last chance_, he thought.

"I didn't see light until I was already a man. And by then it was nothing to me but blinding."

Without warning, Bane lunged backward into the darkness and caught Batman's throat in his grasp, lifting him off the ground. Only the reinforced neckpiece kept his windpipe from being crushed in an instant.

"The shadows betray you, because they belong to me…"

He slammed Batman into the concrete floor, hard enough to dash any other man's brains out. His bare fists pounded on Batman's cowl with unbelievable force, blow after blow smashing down like a jackhammer. Concussed and breathless, Batman could not fight back as Bane hammered on the cowl until finally, incredibly, the hard graphite shell cracked. A long drool of blood slithered from his bloodied mouth.

_No_, Batman thought. _That's not possible._

One final blow put him down for the count. Bane rose, towering above his battered foe. He slowly circled him, much as a predator taunting its prey before the final strike.

"I've long waited for this moment. Did you think you could defy the League and get away with it?" He leaned over, close to Batman's ear. "Tisk tisk. A terrible mistake. Eventually revenge is carefully arranged."

Batman grunted, trying to think rationally through the searing pain in his head. In a last effort, he rolled to the side and slowly lifted himself to his knees. He spat out the blood that accumulated in his mouth rapidly.

Bane watched it all with amusement in his eyes.

"Pain," he pronounced the word slowly, as if testing it out. "Pain is just a state of mind. It's something you learn to live with; I have." He turned to the viewers — only the most faithful and ancient soldiers of Bane's League — who were lined up onto several storeys above and said aloud, "I will keep you in a cellar where you'll feel the pain of thousand deaths."

Bane could see it. Batman, pale, blinded by light, smeared with filth, dressed in tatters, so thin his ribs almost burst from his skin, his arms and legs flopping, drool leaking down his chin. Having only cockroaches and live mice to eat.

The brief vision had the power of a prophecy.

Batman staggered to his feet, swaying unsteadily. His cracked cowl slipped. The entire chamber seemed be spinning around him, and he felt sick to his stomach. Through the fog, he recognized the symptoms of a serious concussion. Nevertheless, he raised his fists.

Bane turned back toward him. "I wondered which would break first — your spirit…" he roared.

Batman threw a punch, but did not come close to connecting. Bane lunged forward and effortlessly lifted Batman impossibly high over his head and looked around. Every mercenary around turned their eyes toward them.

Batman tried to twist free of the grasp, but could not get away. He had nothing left.

"…or your body," Bane concluded and then raised his knee and smashed Batman down on it savagely. A horrific crack echoed throughout the lair.

Pain shot through Batman's whole body with the intensity of a lightning bolt a moment before a dark curtain descended around him. He tried to fight it, tried to keep his eyes open. He needed to. But the throbbing ache in his lower back was excruciating. Closing his eyes, he had no choice but to give in and allow himself to sink into the peaceful black abyss of unconsciousness as Bane dumped him onto the ground, to lie helplessly in the puddles.

The most lethal operative the League of Shadows had ever known crouched and tugged the cracked cowl off his victim, exposing the battered and bloody face of Bruce Wayne. Then he beckoned to his men, who picked up the limp, unresisting body and carried it off into the tunnels.

Standing triumphant, Bane held onto the cowl as a trophy, contemplating the hollow, empty eyes of the Dark Knight's cowl.

* * *

In the darkest hour of latenight, a black sedan parked next to the hangars intended for private jets at Gotham City International Airport. The car's door opened, a driver exited and opened the back door. Nattie climbed out, wearing a classic black trench coat and some kind of dark _hijab_ wrapped around her head, protecting her from the chilling autumn night air.

The driver handed her a small collection of luggage and the moment he got back into the car, Nattie sensed someone else behind her. Suddenly the clank of feet on the plane's stairway made her spun around fast, just as an imposing figure walked out, casting its face in mysterious shadows.

She felt a warning chill climb her spine. Instinctively, she braced herself into a self-defense mode.

"Well, well, if it isn't Natalia St. Dumas."

Nattie lurched, a spear of shock lodging in her heart. That voice.

Silently the figure descended the stairs until the hangar dim lights splashed over his face, revealing himself in the form of her most dreadful juggernaut.

_Bane._

Here. Out of the depths of the dark, sordid past.

"Are you planning a trip?" He paused, waiting for her answer. But she said nothing. His sudden appearance seemed to have hit her hard. If a ghost had stopped her to ask her the time, she would not have looked more petrified as if every synapse in her brain was short-circuiting.

Nattie stepped back and turned around but one of Bane's gunmen materialized in front of her, blocking her way. She recognized him as Barsad — Bane's loyal watchdog. Then she veered into another direction only to be intercepted by other two armed men. Intense fury ran through her veins, heating it up to a boil, and she stared up again at the masked man. He had that strange look that always scared Nattie a little, nevertheless, she met his eye without a shred of fear.

"I was wondering if you could give us a ride," Bane said, gesturing to his brothers in arms. "Gentlemen, help the lady with her bags."

Nattie hugged her bag to her chest as she found her voice again. "Call off your dogs. I'm not going anywhere with you without an explanation."

It entertained the mercenary to let her think the choice remained hers. His eyes blazed at her with slight annoyance. He drew in a deep breath and replied, "My demand was actually a courtesy. I was trying to give you a chance to preserve your dignity. I fulfilled my end of our arrangement. I suggest you begin to make peace with yours."

If Nattie was outraged by his ultimatum, her face did not show it. Her expression was inscrutable. Without offering further resistance, she allowed the men to take her bags and walked briskly toward her jet, the sound of her high-heels echoing in the night's still, humid silence. She felt his gaze boring into her back, studying her every move, ready to charge her debt with him at any cost.

And Nattie was sure he would.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	17. 17 Catch 22

**AN:** Thanks to all the readers. I hope you guys like this chapter. Just don't forget to review if you like the story and want to keep it going.  
Oh, by the way, Bane's prison is not a simple hole in the ground. Try to imagine it as a giant underground dungeon beneath a medieval fortress.

* * *

**17\. CATCH 22**

When the luxury business jet reached cruising altitude and the mainland disappeared below, Bane slumped in the deep leather seat across from Natalia. He gestured to the rich meal on the fold-out table between them. "Is the food not of your liking?"

Natalia lowered her gaze to the mahogany table, her discomfort growing from their tension. She was still shaken up by the moment this force of nature, large and ominous, had fallen across her path.

"I'm not hungry," she answered with a sigh.

The sharp-eyed man who shared the spacious passenger area with her gave an unsatisfied grumble. "A shame. If I were you, I'd eat it. This may be your last decent meal in a while."

She scanned around eagerly, glancing toward the master suite cabin zone. The plane's interior looked more like a small but expensively furnished sitting room. Everything was first class. Tailored elegance combined with the latest generation technology popped up everywhere.

The small squad that accompanied them were scattered in the aircraft and someone or something was locked down inside the master suite, having two armed guards standing watch at the door. Bane was doing mystery about it, but Natalia had a gut feeling on who was inside there. She just did not dare to say it out loud.

"What the hell is going on? Where are we going to? Who's in there?" she asked impatiently.

"Just wait and see what happens, you ask too many questions, angel." He insisted on calling her by the nickname he had given her when she had been a kid.

She met his eyes across the table, her hands curling into fists at her sides. "No, I believe you owe me some explanations."

Bane narrowed his eyes intently as memories swirled inside his head. From what he remembered before his metamorphosis into an unstoppable killer machine, the only time a smile had touched his lips had been when he had been able to enjoy her company. Her graceful figure and energetic logic had always challenged his emotions and his brain. However the fate had wanted them to take separate ways and they had never been the same again, nor their relationship.

He molded himself into a mercenary as tough as nails, who would later lease to the highest bidders. His patrons ranged from top names in politics and commerce to those in organized crime, espionage and war mongering.

While her Natalia Saint Dumas persona — the one she had adopted after she had left her League of Shadows days behind — had been meticulously manufactured and held little resemblance to the invulnerable warrior that she had been trained for. The ugliness of her past had been swept under a forgotten rug and not even Wayne with his limitless intelligence resources had found a shred of evidence tying her to the secret organization. The malice of her intentions and the exploitation in her blood remained though, and greatly helped Bane to obtain his objectives through her deceptive and manipulative skills.

Now that his mission was almost complete, he could not help but ask himself if such skills were not being used against him, because when he looked at her he could no longer see tenderness, only disloyalty.

"I do?" Bane's tone was dry. "How about you tell me why you were trying to disappear without telling me, huh?"

"I did my part of the bargain," she retorted, hiding the internal quiver. She was feeling as though she was trapped. "Now you, on the other hand, seem to have completely lost your good sense. Rallying some guys on the underground? Murdering innocent people? You didn't need to do that."

He gave her an arctic look. "It's not murder. It's war."

She blinked up at him. She could hardly agree with that. "Those people didn't deserve to die."

"Well, you can't expect to make an omelet without breaking a few eggs."

"I never agreed to this!" she breathed, annoyance surfacing with revolt.

"You were aware of the plan the whole time, angel."

A frown formed between her well designed brows. "We had a deal."

"And I upheld my promise. It's done," Bane said. His gaze was calculated, merciless, driven. "But you still haven't fulfilled your part of our agreement — not completely."

* * *

Several hours later, the jet was soaring over miles of desert, until it landed in the middle of nowhere. The exit hatch opened and a small set of steps thudded to the ground. Bane, Natalia e Barsad descended, followed by the rest of the mercenary crew. The masked man directed some men to wait a bit and then bring down the cargo to the rendezvous.

Sunlight stung Natalia's eyes and she shaded her face with a hand. Weary and disoriented, she looked around the desolate area surrounding her, seeing nothing but golden, burning sand as far as the eye could see. She picked her way across the sand, following the armed men to the other side of a dune as Bane was taking the lead.

As if by magic, a huge fortress emerged ghostly from behind the sand mountain. Looked like it had been standing there for hundreds of years. They crossed the heavy steel gateway and were graced with the vision of skulls and skeletons splayed across some rocks on the patio outside the black castle.

After meeting a couple of fully armed militia guards, they were escorted into a dank and dismal high stone-walled facility that resembled nothing more than a medieval supermax security prison. Bane led them through a maze of narrow halls and then down a flight of stairs. This led to more hallways and then more stairs, until Natalia could hardly believe all of this labyrinthine tunneling fit inside the same building. At least torches were filling the corridors with light so they could see their path clearly. Bane — Natalia noted — looked as if he had been born here, his eyes alert to every shimmer and nuance.

They arrived at what it seemed a vast underground compound. Metal stairs and catwalks connected rows of terraces that led into deep, cavernous cell blocks.

As Bane walked Natalia down the cells, a crowd of prisoners gathered around them, most were weakened men with white hair and looking very old, a few well-built highlighting among the others. Though there did not appear to be any guards down there, none of them dared to defy the newcomers.

"I thought you might like to see that your efforts were not in vain," Bane said looking over his shoulder at Natalia.

"What is this place? Where are we?" Natalia asked warily. Being a woman who had survived so many horrors, her survival mechanisms were perpetually on red alert, and until the present moment she had not been able to decipher the real intentions behind her cicerone discourse.

"Some people think it's a prison, some think it's Hell. I used to call it home," he answered.

So this was the infamous prison Bane had been born and raised, referred to by the criminal underworld as the armpit of the Earth.

By the end of the the tour, he gestured toward a particular round-house. "Come."

Natalia peered inside the stinking and dark cell until she saw a man lying on a shabby cot. Through the natural dim-light provided by daylight pipes, she recognised the man's features.

_It is Bruce!_ Natalia thought chaotically, battling through ambiguous feelings of fulfillment and compassion.

It was him. He was dead? Alive? Alive, but… dear God, he looked dreadful! So pale and grey, with bruises covering part of his face. There was dried blood on the corner of his mouth, and at the base of his knuckles. His white t-shirt was smudged with dirt and some dried blood, and if he was not dead yet, he would be soon enough.

Natalia's mind was in turmoil. Although she wanted to hate him for all the misfortune he had brought to her life in the past, it was difficult to see Wayne in that state and not sympathize. Maybe she had misjudged him. Maybe she had allowed herself to be led by her passion for revenge.

However, right now, the what-ifs did not matter anymore. Destiny was destiny.

"You destroyed the man, me, the legend," Bane stated, effectively taking her out of her reveries.

A bolt struck her through the heart at the significance of his words, resonating with some deep emotional pain within her.

She turned to Bane. "Is he dead?"

"He'll live for the time being." He stripped his tone of all emotion.

"Why?" she asked, her mouth felt dry and her voice was barely a whisper.

"Death would be a release from this life, and his sentence has yet to be carried out. I vowed to take away everything that's important to him. His fortune, his resources and the most precious thing in his life — his beloved city. That's where you come in."

Her head jerked back as though he had laid a whip across her face and her eyes slammed into his, nonplussed.

In face of her silence and perplexity, Bane felt the need to elucidate his original idea. "Don't you see? That was all part of the plan."

She frowned at him, her colour suddenly high. "Plan? What plan? Our plan was to do away with Wayne. Period."

"You still can't work it out? Why do you think I asked you here?" His eyes twinkled knowingly. "Did you think your confidence in your business was unshakeable? Your strategy without pitfalls?"

Ice ran down her spine, turning her rigid and, as the meaning of of his words registered upon her, disbelief filled her eyes and a sick knot lodged in the pit of her stomach.

Things finally made sense; the pieces finally fit together. Blinded by rage and sorrow she had become a mere pawn in another one's plot. For Bane, this was not merely an eye for an eye. It was more than simple revenge. It was his crusade.

Natalia shook her head. "I'd never go along with that."

Bane studied the woman in front of him and could not decide what he wanted more — to shake her, in order to make her understand his point, or to break her neck and put an end to this. Fired-up fury ran through his veins and he tried to ice it up.

"Oh, you already have, angel," he scoffed. "I got the reactor's location and its access codes. You're quite thorough," he said, pulling out her smartphone from one of his pockets and swinging it in front of her derisively. "Now I just need your fingerprints. Then I mean to pay back the man who ruined the life of us all."

"Even if you have to hurt the innocent to punish the guilty?"

She was in deep shock. Revenge had hit a roadblock, a tripwire that led straight to a stick of dynamite capable of blowing her whole life apart. Even while she looked for someone to blame she knew that her own bone-deep aggression and arrogance had brought her down.

"Innocent is a strong word to throw around Gotham, angel. I'll honor Rã's al Ghul by finishing his work," he replied assertively.

Eyes, as gray as the sky before the rain, seemed to pierce the depths of his, boring into him from a mask of anger and disbelief. "Though I shared his vision, I never been fond of his means to attain it."

Bane made a sound of self-deprecation. "It doesn't matter what you think. Gotham needs to die before can be reborn. And soon it'll be nothing but a land only good for one thing — graves."

Suddenly, Barsad and another merc caught her from behind, grabbed her by the arm and yanked her around. They forcibly took her fingerprints while she tried to escape, but they were too strong.

Natalia glanced up at the man she had once regarded as an older brother. As much as she forced herself to be convinced that he was just feeling hurt by circumstances that were out of their control, deep down she knew he was a monster with a heart so dark and cold as the dungeon in which he had been born. She was sure that no matter what she said, he would not listen to her. His mind was made up. Yet she would try. Maybe she could pacify him since she refused to be a party to his genocide plans.

"Please, if there's still a shred of humanity left within you…" she pleaded, her body tight with desperation.

"I dwell in darkness, angel, and darkness is where I belong. I need no sympathy from you, and you will get none from me."

"I'd rather be dead than keep being a part of this," she burst out, edgy.

"I'm sure that can be arranged," he replied stiffly.

The men released her from their grasp and she dropped to the cement floor. Dignity forced Natalia to fight. Lightning fast, she got up and spun, her leg lifted in a roundhouse kick, fast as a snake, and she very, very nearly hit him. But his hand caught her ankle. Held it hard. Satisfaction ran through him.

She looked at him for what it seemed a long moment, her eyes ferocious. Bane felt her body tense to break point. Right now he wanted to break her. He twisted her leg cruelly, sending her sprawling into the ground.

"What happened to your manners, angel?" he drawled, masking the molten mess of emotion inside.

She panted against the pain, teeth clenched, but she would not submit. Struggling, she leapt to her feet as Bane aimed a kick at her head. Natalia dodged, punching below his knee cap, and then went for a pistol concealed in his boot, but Bane smashed her hand away.

Almost half a dozen mercenaries, who had until then merely watched their melee combat quietly, trained their guns simultaneously on her in a threatening way. Then, one of them jumped on Natalia, violently restraining her, while another grabbed her by the hair, wrenching her head up so she could see Bane's face.

He came close to her and, if were not for his mask, he would practically spat into her eyes as he spoke, "You ungrateful bitch. You think you know what torture is? You have no idea. But I will show you."

He nodded to his men and they shoved her to the floor in front of him. Natalia looked up and, despite her panic, she gave her non-subtitled response with absolute bravery and confidence.

"You may pose no threat to me, or to my plans. But until I know for sure, you will remain here as my guest."

Ice ran down her spine, turning her rigid but more than hurt and insulted by his words, Natalia was outraged. "You mean as your prisoner, don't you?"

"Only if you try to leave. In this case you'll have the same fate reserved to your fellow John Daggett. The trash can."

She blinked, realization dawning. "Is Daggett your ally?"

"He _was_ the backup plan. Unfortunately he became a dispensable obstacle. The funny thing is, he wanted your head on a silver platter and he even paid for that. You see, you have your secrets and I have mine. Now we're even." Having said that, Bane turned and started to leave.

The blood drained from Natalia's face. Clearly, she was very wrong about her so called partner in more ways than one. "You can't leave me here," she shouted at him, striving to remain standing. There was no point in doing anything else since she was unarmed and surrounded by a barbarian horde.

Bane stopped and said over his shoulder in a threatening voice, "I can and I will." He glanced around and gestured toward their surroundings. "These men haven't seen a woman in a long time. Let alone one so beautiful with soft and fragrant skin. Good luck."

Natalia's attempt to sprint after him was blocked by Barsad, a grim smile twisting his lips as he scrutinized her from head to toe with approval. Suddenly, before she could move again, a rifle butt swung across her face and she faded out of consciousness, falling to the ground with a thud. Hands grabbed her and dragged her in a dark jail cell.

* * *

The first hours after the injury, as Bruce slipped in and out of consciousness, were a torment of feverish dreams merged into blurred reality. He heard voices coming and going, speaking heavily accented English and a couple of other languages his brain barely registered. Confusion warred with pain as the clutch of many hands dragged him down into a long dark shaft. A black, skull-like visage gazed down on him, coming closer and closer…

As his senses flickered back, he found himself lying on his back on a rough wooden cot. He stared upward at a sooty stone roof that looked as though it had been carved from solid rock. He glimpsed prison bars out of the corner of his eye. His Batsuit was gone, replaced by coarse, filthy rags. His head throbbed and his throat was parched.

Whiskers carpeted his pale, clammy face. He tried to sit up, only to experience an excruciating jolt of pain. He sank back onto the cot, gasping in agony.

As the shock and pain laid, everything came back to him. Bane and his army of mercenaries. Their fight in Gotham's undergrounds. His back bent backwards until…

Someone stirred to his right, and he realized that he was not alone in the cell. He tried to roll over to see who it was, but even the attempt was torture.

Heavy footsteps approached the cot. A massive figure squatted beside him. Densely muscled shoulders curved upward into a thick neck supporting a familiar masked face. The dark skull from his fever dreams seemed to gaze down on him.

_Bane. _

"Why don't you just kill me?" Bruce rasped, his throat sore from disuse.

"To kill you now would be a mercy," Bane answered. "You cannot die until you have known complete despair. And you will. I promise. Let's see if you're good without your gadgets and your resources."

Bruce tried to hold onto his anger, but the pain was too great. He let out a sharp gasp. Bane blurred before his eyes as he felt the darkness encroaching on his vision. He fought to stay conscious.

"Where am I?" he stammered. Though he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his teeth were chattering so much he could barely speak. He felt hot and cold at the same time.

"Too far from your warm mansion," Bane replied wryly. "I spent too many years behind these disgusting walls. So long that I pretty much can call this place as home."

Bruce forced himself to look around, turning his head as little as possible. Through the rusty iron bars of his cell, he glimpsed what appeared to be an enormous underground complex carved into a gigantic cave. The entire structure resembled some type of ancient dungeon.

Wretched figures clad in frayed peasant garb populated the place, trudging wearily about their labors. There appeared to be no guards — only prisoners. Angry shouts and screams came from the other cells. Although there were no visible windows, fresh air and beams of light came from the surface above through light pipes.

Bane rose from Bruce's bedside and crossed the cell to the bars.

"There is a reason that this prison is the worst hell on earth." He lifted his masked countenance toward the high stone ceiling. "Hope. Every man who has rotted here over the centuries has looked up to those narrow light ducts and imagined a way to reach freedom. Death was the only reward for those who attempted to escape. Those who remained here have lost their youth, their sanity and their humanity, turning themselves into no more than beasts."

"I learned here that there can be no true despair without hope." He pulled away from the bars, fixing his pitiless gaze on Bruce. "So as I terrorize Gotham, I will feed its people hope to poison their souls. I will let them believe they can survive while you stay right here, mulling over your fault helplessly, wondering if they made it without you."

Bruce understood now. This man was a torturer of the worst kind, playing mind games with people, giving them a false hope of release. He glared furiously at his captor as he continued.

"Then," Bane said coldly, "when you have truly understood the depths of your failure, we will fulfill Rã's al Ghul destiny. We will destroy Gotham. And when it is done… when Gotham is ashes… then you have my permission to die."

The masked man turned to depart, leaving Bruce alone in the dismal cell. A barred door swung shut, its rusty hinges squeaking in protest. He wanted to shout at Bane, say something defiant, but it would have been nothing but an empty gesture. He could not even move without agony. The deep throbbing pain coming from his back was resonating through his whole body, so he closed his eyes and allowed the darkness to engulf him once again.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	18. 18 Duress

**AN: **As you guys know English is not my first language, so forgive me any horrible mistakes. This chapter is going to show what's going on around Gotham. Bruce and Natalia will show up in the next one. Don't forget to read and review. It's very important to me.

* * *

**18\. DURESS**

After more than 30 hours since Natalia's private jet had taken flight into the unknown, the police found Daggett's body stuffed inside of a trash container at Gotham's Lower East Side. His neck was broken, all his fingertips were sawn off, and his teeth were removed in order to make Identification harder.

As soon as the media had caught wind, a circus formed at the alley's mouth. A pack of hungry reporters gathered behind yellow police tape, shouting questions as uniformed police officers pushed back passersby. Cameras clicked away at a rapid-fire pace. TV crews captured the chaos on film.

Under the weak sun of early Fall, a dozen policemen and forensic investigators milled round on the alley, their work being witnessed by the whole city.

* * *

Elsewhere, Lucius Fox was enjoying his Sunday breakfast while he was reading the newspaper, like usual. His phone rang and he looked at the screen with a frown. It was Douglas Fredericks.

Lucius picked it up on the first ring and answered, "This is Fox."

His hand on the phone tightened as he listened what the person on the other side of the line said. His eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed in concern. Getting to his feet, he immediately looked for the remote and turned on the television.

On the news, live shots of the alley where Daggett's corpse had been found were shown. The bright red banner across the bottom of the TV screen was streaming:

_**MULTI-MILLIONAIRE BUSINESSMAN FOUND DEAD THIS EARLY MORNING IN A DUMPSTER.**_

* * *

About an hour later, the elevator let Fox and his secretary Hannah off on the top floor of Wayne Tower. They strolled toward the executive boardroom since the board of directors had convened an emergency meeting.

"Have you contacted everyone I asked you to?" he asked her.

Hannah speed up her pace to match his. "Everyone who's in town. Ms. St. Dumas is nowhere to be found. I called her cell phone all morning. Left messages there. Her P.A. said he hasn't seen her nor heard of her since friday night. He sounded worried about," she said.

_This is no good_, Lucius thought.

"Mr. Wayne is missing as well. I called the manor but even his butler didn't answer."

This was no good at all.

As he swung the doors to the boardroom open he found a different kind of meeting already in progress. The board members sat around the conference table, ashen and trembling. Armed intruders held them captive at gunpoint, while an intimidating masked figure occupied the head of the table.

Lucius recognized him as the same ruthless killer who had staged the raid on the fundraiser. The same one, according to Bruce Wayne, whose operations were being funded by John Daggett. Newspaper reports on the attack had identified him as a notorious mercenary known only as Bane.

"This meeting is called to order," the man said. He was dressed for combat, wearing a khaki utility harness with plenty of pouches, and rugged gray trousers and boots.

Fox and his efficient secretary froze, staring aghast at the masked man and his gunmen. Lucius stepped protectively in front of Hannah.

"Chief, care to join us?" Bane addressed him. He crossed his beefy arms. A pistol was stuck in his belt. He glanced around the conference table. "I also need one ordinary member. Mr. Fox, would you nominate one, please?"

_For what?_ Lucius wondered. Bane's mockery of business protocol left him speechless and confused.

"No," Douglas Fredericks said, speaking up. The dignified older man rose to his feet. "I volunteer."

Fox was impressed by his colleague's courage. He hoped it would not cost him too dearly as the mercenaries rounded up the two of them.

Without offering resistance, the two executives were escorted out from the boardroom. Helpless against the armed soldiers, Fox could not help wishing that Bruce was there. He would know how to handle a situation like this. But no one knew his whereabouts since two days ago.

For him, there was definitely something wrong. Daggett was dead. St. Dumas and Wayne were both missing apparently. He got a feeling that all those events were connected in some way to the intentions of the masked man leading their way out of Wayne Tower through a confusing maze of tunnels somewhere beneath the city.

The dismal catacombs were dank and dark, but showed evidence of recent modifications, and even new excavations. The engineer in Fox tried to figure out the purpose of the construction. Somebody had clearly put a lot of time and labor into retrofitting the underground. But why?

"Where are you taking us?" Fox asked cautiously as he tried to assist Fredericks across the debris that still piled up through the tunnels.

"Where you buried your resources," Bane answered. "The bowels of Gotham."

Fox shivered involuntarily at the killer's words. He stared at the small army of mercenaries working on crates filled up with guns and other party favors, wondering what the hell was going on down there.

They came at last to a large, damp tunnel lit by flickering fluorescent lights. It looked as if it had been newly excavated, perhaps as recently as the last few days. Fox had no idea where beneath Gotham they were, although it felt as if they had been walking for miles.

_We could be anywhere_, he realized.

Bane's men planted explosive charges on a freshly hewn wall at the far end of the tunnel. Standing off to one side, looking distinctly ill at ease, was an older man about Fox's age. He did not look at all like a mercenary. He paced nervously, his face drenched with sweat. He ran his hand through disorderly white hair. Armed escorts kept a close eye on him.

Lucius stared at the stranger in surprise, recognizing him as the renegade Vlatavian scientist who was believed to have perished in a plane crash some months ago — Dr. Leonid Pavel. It was his work, he recalled, that had persuaded Bruce to mothball the fusion project indefinitely.

_What's he doing here? _Fox mused. _Another of Bane's prisoners?_

The mercs finished placing the charges. They stepped away from the wall and signaled Bane. He nodded at them. An explosion rocked the tunnel.

* * *

At Gotham General Hospital, a nurse helped Gordon pull himself up to a sitting position. It hurt, but maybe not as much as before. As soon as the nurse departed, he turned his attention to Babs, who was sitting down in a chair next to the hospital bed, flipping through a dog-eared copy of A Tale of Two Cities.

"You should have gone back with your mom to Cleveland," he blurted out.

The young redhead blew out a breath. "And leave you all by yourself? Not a chance," she reasoned, looking at him. "Even mom understood that it wouldn't be good for me skipping school. I'll be there on Thanksgiving, though."

"That's still two months from now," he countered.

"What's wrong with me staying here? Are you worried about the bad guys? Didn't you see Batman is back in town? He's gonna get these guys and—" As if on cue, a light knock on the door cut her off.

Gordon was aware about the twenty-four hour presence of a pair of uniformed cops outside his room, in case Bane or someone else tried to finish the job, and the entry was allowed only to authorized persons.

"C'mon in," he said wearily to the doorway.

Sarah Essen walked right into the room and carefully shoved the door closed. She eyed the whole place, curious, as if looking for someone with a shotgun nearby. When she finally spotted Babs she waved a small paper bag in front of her.

"Chocolate cinnamon muffins. Your favorite. I forgot the drinks, though," she said, stumbling for the best approach and then added, "Why don't you get something of your taste out of the vending machine? There's one at the end of the hall." She dug into her purse and then handed Barbara some bills.

The teen gave her a blank look before taking the money. She rolled her eyes and said, "Why don't you just say you need you guys to be alone?"

The female cop stood by the hospital bed, waiting patiently for the girl to get out. As soon as she and Gordon were alone, her gaze finally rested upon the injured commissioner. He was still pale, and uncomfortably gaunt, but he looked much better than he had when the cops had dragged him from the sewers. A new pair of glasses rested on his nose. An oxygen mask lay to the side.

Apparently it took more than a few bullets to take Gotham's top cop out of the game.

"Smart girl," Sarah muttered, pointing to the door.

Jim, who until that moment remained silent, offered, "Can I help you, lieutenant?"

"John Daggett's body was found in a dumpster a few hours ago," she reported. "I thought you might like to know, sir."

The veteran cop closed his eyes and sighed heavily, trying to make sense of it all. They needed to do more than just find Bane. They had to find out what he was up to, before it was too late. Daggett's name had been all over the excavations in the tunnels, and now he was dead.

"How's it going with digging into his company?"

"Paper trail on UniCity Contracting's a bust. But Detective Driver got hold of a friend in Quantico, who said Bane was responsible for a coup in Africa which brought John Daggett exclusive access to the resources there."

_You don't have to be the World's Greatest Detective to see a connection_, Gordon mused. Daggett had been funding Bane's activities in exchange for his services as a mercenary. But why a businessman would have brought a group of hired guns to Gotham City remained a mystery to him.

He folded his arms over his chest and eyed Sarah intently. "Where did you get to with the tunnel searches?"

"Nowhere. Foley suspended the searches. He said he got bigger things to worry about now, and since the Feds are involved, it's not our problem anymore."

Gordon's mouth dropped. "What? He's letting Bane and the rest of his men get away? What can be more important than finding an army of professional killers?"

The blonde woman shifted her feet uneasily then said, "Finding a masked vigilante charged for murder of the former DA?"

The commissionaire snorted, annoyed. He sat up straight, his pains forgotten.

Sarah fidgeted, pacing three steps then back the other way. She would best tread cautiously. "And that's not all. On the night of the museum heist, hi-tech military equipment was stolen from a military depot. Ammunition, detonators, grenades, plastic explosives plus three stealth tanks. We were notified just yesterday by the commander in charge. Bane's assault on the fundraiser was just a smokescreen for his real agenda."

"Are you sure it was his men who did it?" he asked her, even though he was pretty sure he knew the answer. If Sarah's allegations were correct then everything was fallen into place and the situation was far worse than he expected.

She pulled out her phone and thumbed through a couple of screens until she got to the right one. "This is an in-house surveillance video from the raided building just before the cameras went dead," she told him as she held the phone in front of him. The video showed members of a heavily armed militia holding their weapons, blasting a rolling shutter as they invaded the army deposit. "I guess it speaks for itself. How they managed to gain access to a stronghold like that, it's something that escapes me."

Before the commissioner could say anything else, the door swung open, and Foley stormed in, visibly agitated. He was short of breath, as though he had run all the way up the stairs. Beads of perspiration dotted his brow. He paused to catch his breath and noticed Essen, glaring at her uneasily. He did not look pleased to see the female cop hanging around Gordon.

He finally turned to the veteran cop. "Okay, Commissioner," he said, gasping, "you were right!"

"What's happened?" Gordon said, scowling.

"Your masked man kidnapped the Wayne Enterprises board," Foley reported. "He let most of them go, but took two down into the sewers."

Gordon winced at the thought. Memories of the tunnels, of his own blood spilling into the chilling waters, sent a chill through his entire body. _This is it_, he realized. _Bane is making his move._

"Enough of this shit," he ordered. "I don't care if the FBI or the whole damn hell are in. It's time to bring out the big guns. Send every available cop down there to smoke him out."

Foley hesitated. "The mayor won't want panic—"

"So it's a training exercise," Sarah suggested tentatively.

For once, Foley seemed to welcome the younger woman's input. He looked guiltily at Gordon.

"I'm sorry I didn't take you seriously—"

Gordon cut him some slack. Foley was a good cop. He had just taken for granted that the bad days were gone. Gordon had known better.

"Don't apologize for believing the world is in better shape than it is," the commissioner told him. "Just fight to make it true."

Foley nodded, seeming to understand at last. He left to carry out Gordon's orders.

Sarah moved to follow him, but Gordon called her back.

"Lieutenant," the commissioner said. "Assemble a small group. You, Detectives MacDonald and Driver, and maybe someone else. I need you guys to chase up the Daggett leads, any way you can. See if we're missing anything. All right?

She nodded solemnly.

He continued, "But be very careful, okay? I don't want any of you to have the same fate of him." He paused as if looking for the right words. "One last thing, I need you to find a way to contact Batman."

Sarah's face froze for a moment. Then she frowned. "How am I supposed to do that? Does he have an emergency number to call?"

Gordon grinned. "The signal over the GCPD rooftop."

* * *

Down in the tunnels, Bane led the way into the reactor chamber. Dust and smoke filled the air as Fox and Fredericks stumbled over the rubble and into the top-secret energy project beneath the river. Water from the drainage channels spilled over onto the wreckage. Fox felt sick to his stomach as they approached the reactor.

All at once, Dr. Pavel's presence made horrible sense.

Bane shoved Fox toward the control panel. "Would you mind to do the honors?" The polite request sounded a lot more like an order.

Fox took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. Right now was not the time to get angry. He shook his head slowly, thinking, _No_. This was exactly what Bruce had sacrificed so much to prevent. _I can't allow this, no matter what._

Bane drew a gun from his belt and held it to Fredericks' head.

"I only need one other board member," he said. "Shall I have my men fetch another?"

Fox remembered the other hostages they had left behind at Wayne Tower. Was it possible they were still in danger? He prayed that the man was bluffing.

He looked at Fredericks benevolently. The man maintained his dignity, but still trembled as Bane cocked his weapon. An old friend of Thomas Wayne, he had always been a staunch defender of the Wayne legacy. Would a gun now take his life as well?

Recalling that the reactor's access control was protected by a fingerprint recognition system, and both Wayne's and St. Dumas' handprints were needed to engage it, he tried one last trump card, "I'm afraid I can't do it. You'll need more than our prints to go ahead."

"Right you are, Mr. Fox," Bane replied, unconcerned. "I'd need the Chairman's fingerprints and Bruce Wayne's as well."

He nodded to one of his minions, who then hurried forward and, before Fox could even try to stop him, carefully placed an adhesive backed thin gelatin sheet on the biometric scanner. The control panel beeped, confirming Wayne's identity. Buttons and gauges lit up.

"As you can see, I came prepared," Bane stated, making clear he was the one who held all the cards. Defying him at the expense of their lives would be nothing but an empty gesture.

The minion repeated the process and this time Natalia St. Dumas' identity was confirmed.

Fox gasped and darted his eyes from the merc to the control panel and back again. Shocked and truly frightened by the prospect that his friends had been somehow harmed, he asked, "How did you get these? What have you done to them?"

"Don't worry. They're alive and safe in a place where they will have a ringside seat for the next era of western civilization," Bane said and then added, gesturing his head toward Fox, "Next, please."

The CEO did not like the sound of that. But Bane did not bother to elaborate. Subdued, he placed his own hand on the scanner.

_I'm sorry, Bruce_, he thought. _I have no choice._

Bane lowered his gun and motioned for Fredericks to do the same. A final beep activated the reactor core, which began to glow brighter and brighter as a fusion reaction ignited inside the suspended metal sphere, generating vast amounts of energy. Gauges on the core recorded the steady increase in power production.

Unlike the rigged demonstration Bruce had staged for Natalia before, the reaction did not peter out after a few minutes. It continued to grow in intensity as — deep within — atomic nuclei combined with increasing frequency, releasing vast amounts of power in the form of high-energy neutrons.

It was the same process, Fox knew, that powered the sun. And hydrogen bombs.

Dr. Pavel stared at the reactor, transfixed by the sight. Bane turned toward the scientist.

"Do your work," he commanded.

Roused from his scientific reverie, Pavel scurried to obey. Bane turned back to his men and gestured toward the hostages.

"Take them to the surface," he instructed, effectively dismissing Fredericks and Fox. The last one furrowed his brow, taking a good at the masked terrorist, who merely stood by silently as his men dragged the two executives back into the tunnels.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	19. 19 Who Plays With Fire

**AN: **Hello again readers. When I started to plan the chapters that would cover Bruce's time in prison, I imagined the Egyptian actor Omar Sharif as the face claim for his caretaker. Unfortunately, this great actor passed away on last July 10. Anyway, I'm still keeping him as the face of the prison's doctor.  
Now back to the story, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and I would love it if you leave a review for it. Just a line would do!

* * *

**19\. WHO PLAYS WITH FIRE...**

"_Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves." - Confucius_

Natalia woke up stiff and disoriented on the freezing, dirty ground, not knowing where she was, or when it was, or what she was doing there. She sat up and looked around the dark room. No windows, just cold stone surfaces and small beams of light coming from torches. She could hear the sound of many voices — talking, laughing, whimpering — as a putrid odor attacked her nostrils, causing her to become nauseous. It was pretty much like a nightmare.

She checked her body for damage until she carefully reached her aching cheek, groaning a little as her bruises made themselves known. It was then that everything hit home.

_God…_

As the shock and pain registered, she realized this was real. She was no longer safe and protected. Bane had thrown her and Wayne into that off-the-grid dungeon for the world's most dangerous criminals. Anything could and would be done to her.

As Natalia stood there, she felt something she had not felt in a long time: fear. The fear of the unknown, of what was to come. She could not help but let herself being assaulted by the most primal of emotions as her mind swirled with thoughts of a whole city being wiped off the map, in part because of her actions.

Feeling impotent and regretful, she shut her eyes against the darkness, held her breath, and covered her ears, wondering if she would always feel like a pawn in the greater scheme of someone else's plan. Next she tried to recall at what point things had started to take a different turn.

* * *

**Flashback on (3 years ago)**

As Nattie hung up the video conference, she had an uneasy feeling of being watched, which was promptly confirmed when a barely perceptible movement in the darkness caught her attention.

Wide-eyed, she turned to the figure who cloaked itself silently in the shadows. Her first instinct was to cross her arms in front of herself.

"Why are you here?" she asked with a hint of annoyance.

"Why do you insist on asking questions you already know the answer to?" the anonymous speaker did not bother to unveil himself. But it was not necessary; the muffled voice, almost musical, gave him away.

Nattie simply made a face and turned her back on him, walking over to the same table she had been sitting at moments before.

"How long do you intend to keep stalking me?" she spoke after a long beat. "Don't you trust me?"

"I wouldn't have asked for your cooperation if I didn't trust your abilities," the man replied. "I came by because we have important business to discuss."

She turned to face him. "Do we?" Her motions and tone of voice showing a calculated insolence and coldness.

He stepped toward her, making himself recognizable. He was wearing a khaki tactical uniform and black boots. The odd black mask covered most of his face. Just like the last time they had spoken to each other.

Ignoring her cockiness, he commented, "I heard the reactor project was mothballed."

"I see news travels fast."

"According to the contract terms, TELOS is entitled to some financial compensation from Wayne Enterprises. Is that correct?"

"How do you know that?" Nattie snapped. A small creased formed between her eyebrows and she was fighting against the urge to tell him to go to hell. Was he spying on her all the time?

"It's my business to know things," the masked man replied nonchalantly. "And what I do not know, I find out."

Even though there were things that made her blood boil, Nattie rarely lost her temper in front of other people. In fact, she was known for being cool under pressure. Most of this portrait was deceptive — just a mean to be accepted and publicly respected by others. But the mysterious man, whom she was staring at right now, knew very well how to push the right buttons on her emotions. He knew how to make her feel uncomfortable and how to evoke the unfamiliar churning of fear in her guts.

"Since you seem to know everything about everything, then I assume your question is purely rhetorical."

This time, her provocative tone did not go unnoticed by him. "Careful, woman. I can easily replace you with someone less impertinent."

"I doubt you'll find somebody else with stronger motivations than mine," she challenged with a smirk.

His low, derisive chuckle made her shiver. "Now I see why your father refused to name you as his successor. Your stubbornness and arrogance would lead us all to downfall."

At the sound of those words Nattie moved forward and her right hand flew up hard across the uncovered space of his cheek. "How dare you?"

The man barely registered the slap. He turned to face her again and broke into an evil laugh before saying, "You're closer to your intent than you think, _angel_. Don't screw it up."

She simply took a deep breath and did not respond, the endearment — a small reminder of the time when the two had lived together almost like siblings — cooled down her anger a bit.

"The canceling might be providential," he kept going. "Now you're going to be one of the majority shareholders and that's gonna give you enough power to control his company's destiny. Not to mention that it will provide you access to Wayne's deepest and darkest secrets."

Nattie glanced away, recalling the moment this man had come to her few years ago, making an offer to join forces with him in his purpose of destroying the traitor of the League.

_An eye for an eye_, he had said.

Though he could obviously bring about the immediate death of their enemy, he did not believe in a quick and easy death for a person who deserved to suffer slowly and painfully. And she agreed with that. It was the ways of the League of Shadows, the only one she had learned.

"We're on the verge of getting what we want, but we must be patient. I'm not gonna fight him until I'll make his resources, advantages, and knowledge mean nothing. And when that day comes, I'll break him. Then you and I will have our vengeance."

Having said that, the man handed her a file folder. She took it, nonplussed. It had Dr. Pavel's name written on the front.

"What 's this?"

"The newest pawn in our little game," he answered dryly, mingling with the shadows again.

A moment later, Nattie knew she was alone.

**Flashback off**

* * *

Nattie came back to present when the sound of metal grids opening in the darkness became audible and soon after she felt hands grabbing her roughly — strong, firm hands —, pulling her backward, off-balance.

While one hand covered her mouth from behind the other one groped her forcefully. She tried to fight it, tried to resist the force that was pulling her back, but it was like fighting against a huge bear. Next a man's voice — his stinking breath hot on her neck — whispered in her ear, "We can do this the hard way or the easy way, babe. I'm going to let you decide which way we go."

The vicious voice had terror expanding in her chest and she tried to release herself from his sticky and sweaty hands. Suddenly, she stopped fighting off her attacker, who in turn eased his grip on her just long enough.

It was all she needed to spring to life. She bend her knees right up and push her feet against the stone wall as hard as she could. Stunned, her captor lost his balance and Natalia seized the opportunity to violently head-butt him with such force that the man fell back, semi-conscious before he could hit the ground, grunting.

With her chest heaving, she glared at the hulking convict, who started to stand up again, ready for a fight. Natalia's gaze travelled across the dark cell, frantically looking for something that could be used as a weapon.

Spotting an old wooden handle shoring up a mockery of bed, she quickly snatched it up and hit him in the head with vicious fury. Bone splintered noisily and soon the maniac case lost consciousness. However Natalia kept smashing the piece of wood into him, even after it was clear he was out and likely to stay that way for some time.

The mayhem caught the attention of others inmates and within moments, a bunch of men were clustered around the entry of the cell staring at the only female prisoner in disbelief. Blood was flowing and there was death in the air. Everyone fell silent and one could literally hear a pin drop in here.

Natalia looked up and shot them with anger piercing eyes. Fear could motivate or paralyze the best of people or could be used as a weapon by the worst. She would not let fear get the best of her. Not this time.

"Y'all best step off," she yelled vigorously at the spectators.

Shrugging, as if something like that happened all the time, all of them retreated back to their cells slowly, except for one who stood behind. He looked younger than the others and Natalia speculated that he was about her own age. His blond hair made him seem slightly less threatening but when he turned his attention to her, she stiffened in apprehension. His eyes were neither cold nor cruel, but flush with sorrow.

Then he knelt down by the fallen prisoner and pressed his fingers to the carotid artery. No pulse. No breath. The big guy was dead.

Resigned, the young stranger grabbed the man's wrists with caution and hauled him out of the cell, leaving a trail of blood behind.

Natalia just watched everything in silence. In sadness. There was no honor in assassin's work. As soon as she got by herself, she collapsed on the ground in a mass of tremors.

There was only one way out of this nightmare. To change it for Bane somehow, before he took one step further into his sadistic plan. And destroyed everything. Irrevocably this time. How she would do that, she had absolutely no idea.

Eventually the mental and emotional stress — not to mention the fatigue and hunger — did a number on her physical strength and she fell asleep.

* * *

Some time earlier, at the far end of the corridor, Bruce opened his eyes. He was unshaven, filthy, lying miserably atop the cot, from which he had not stirred for who knew how long. Feverish and weak, he had lost all track of time, drifting in and out of awareness. His stomach was upset and he tasted blood in his mouth. His ears was ringing and his head felt like one massive ache, not to mention the searing pain in his back which was a constant companion, even in his sleep.

He blinked, adjusting his eyes to the semi-darkness, and found an old man with shaggy white hair and thick mustache leaning over him. The man, who appeared to be in his seventies or so, was wiping a cool, soaked cloth over Bruce's face.

With pain assaulting his body everywhere, Bruce winced at the touch of the cool cloth and tried to get away from it vainly. Existence had become an endless ordeal he could never escape. He could not even clean himself.

"It's okay. I'm just trying to help," the nameless man said apologetically. Though his features revealed some Middle Eastern ancestry, his accent was difficult to place — at first it sounded British, but there was a subtle Eastern European twang underneath. He appeared quite tall even though he was sat down. Ragged wool vest hung over his scrawny frame. He was dressed like a peasant, but had an air of ravaged gentility.

A low grunt of protest escaped Bruce's mouth as the man carefully lifted up his head and poured him some water from a old clay pot. He gulped everything down and nearly choked when the fresh drink hit his sore, dry throat.

"Take it easy," White Hair said, helping him to lie again. "Don't move. You've got two or three broken ribs, probable concussion, a lot of bruises and contusions… And I think you might have some kind of internal bleeding, although I couldn't find any puncture wound."

Surprised at how efficiently White Hair itemized his injuries, Bruce studied him, wondering how this man could tell him how bad his body was internally without a full series of X-rays.

"How do you know about that stuff? Are you a doctor?" Bruce asked.

His caretaker chuckled. "Something like that."

Bruce then tried to roll onto his side, grimacing and taking a few deep breaths in the process. "My back… It hurts like hell."

The '_doctor'_ lifted Wayne's T-shirt just enough to notice a huge dark bruise on his lower back. He started to palpate the bruised area, and Bruce screamed and arched his back away from him.

"Hmm… It might be something good or something really bad," the man said. He looked resigned, more focused. "It could be just a, well, pain, or it could be a slipped disc. Or it could be also a broken vertebra, which is much more serious."

He then ran an instrument over various areas of Bruce's feet and legs, pressed muscles and nerves to test sensitivity. Apparently Bruce responded well to the examination thus he asked, "Can you move your legs by yourself?"

"Yeah," Bruce gasped and sweared out loud and aggressive as he did what he was asked to do.

The '_doctor_' let out a sympathetic sigh. "Well, judging by the absence of numbing sensations in the feet and legs, and the intensity of the pain, I guess the last possibility won. The good news is that the spinal cord appears not to have been injured."

Trembling, Bruce cautiously went back to his previous position. The pain was so excruciating that he felt tears running down his face.

"All that's left is resting. Make sure you're stabilized," the other man stated as he laid a thin, small, worn-out blanket over Bruce's body. "The fever's down some, it'll probably be gone in another day or two."

Suddenly, a hustle of voices and frantic movement coming from outside the cell caught Bruce's attention. Slowly, painfully, he rolled his head to see what was going on.

The '_doctor'_ also stopped his duties and turned to the dark corridor.

"What happened?" Bruce asked anxiously, his voice trailing off due such effort.

White Hair got to his feet and peered through the bars. He shook his head in disgust. "My guess is that they got the girl."

Shocked by that information, Bruce widened his eyes and turned his head toward the old man. "Girl? Are there women down here?"

"Stay put," White Hair ordered briskly, ignoring his question. "I'm going to check things out," he added, showing Bruce his back as he headed toward the corridor.

Slowly despair took hold of Wayne and he asked himself if someday he would be able to feel like a human being again.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	20. 20 Gets Burned By Fire - Pt1

**AN:** First of all, I would like to thank everyone for all the reviews and feedback. You guys have no ideia how your impressions are important to me.

I had to split the Chapter in two. It was getting too long. Chapters 20 and 21 are basically about the same things that happened in the movie (there are lots of things happening all at once) and are strongly based on TDKR novelization and original script (so, the majority of the credits goes for the filmmakes and writers). However, I made some changes, especially as regards the characters that are not in the original material (like Sarah Essen and her coworkers). Next Chapter the storyline are going to get back to the prison pit and to more Bruce/Natalia scenes.

Again, sorry for any errors, English is not my first language. And finally, don't forget to read &amp; review.

* * *

**20\. GETS BURNED BY FIRE - Part I**

_"When evil-doing comes like falling rain, nobody calls out 'stop!' When crimes begin to pile up they become invisible. When sufferings become unendurable the cries are no longer heard. The cries, too, fall like rain in summer." - Bertolt Brecht, Selected Poems_

Back in Gotham, police and SWAT teams prepared to invade the underground with Foley as action coordinator. Assault teams reported in from all around the city, massing in the thousands outside every subway station, manhole, and drainage pipe.

As soon as the deputy commissioner gave the go-ahead, pretty much the entire GCPD was going to descend and begin scouring every tunnel and rat hole until they rooted out Bane and his hostages.

"Go," Foley ordered and gestured for them to go ahead.

A SWAT team, its members equipped with faceless black helmets, body armor, and assault rifles, converged on the mouth of a large drainage tunnel. Before they got too far, however, a low, echoing boom sounded from somewhere deeper within the sewers.

The men exchanged tense looks, but headed in anyway, following orders that had been given to thousands of other officers throughout the city.

Flashlights swept the slimy walls of the tunnels. Weapons were locked and loaded. Radios kept them in touch with all the other teams.

One way or another, they were going to find Bane.

* * *

Meanwhile, in another part of town, Dr. Pavel stepped away from the huge metallic sphere, sweating. His sleeves were rolled up and he was breathing hard. A case of sophisticated tools lay at his feet, along with discarded bits of shielding. He put the last finishing touches on the reactor and turned to his captor, looking gravelly. "It is done," he announced dolefully. "This is now a four megaton nuclear bomb."

That was roughly two hundred times more powerful than the bombs that had devastated Hiroshima and Nagasaki during World War Two.

Bane nodded in approval and called to his men. "Pull the core out of the reactor."

"You can't!" Pavel blurted, his face draining of color. "This is the only power source capable of sustaining it. If you move it, the core will decay in a matter of months—"

"Five, by my calculations," Bane replied calmly.

Pavel was confused. Did Bane not appreciate the danger? He tried desperately to explain.

"And then it will go off!"

"For the sake of your family, Dr. Pavel, I hope so."

Stunned, the scientist watched as the men began to disconnect the core. He wrung his hands anxiously. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing that he had died in that plane crash, after all.

_God forgive me_, he thought. _What have I done?_

* * *

Oblivious to what was happening underneath the city, more than sixty thousand of eager sports fans crowded Gotham Stadium to watch the big game between the Gotham Wildcats and the Blüdhaven Brawlers.

Flanked by security, Mayor Grange alongside her children — three lads ranging from mid teens to early twenties — greeted reporters outside the VIP entrance. Cameras captured the photogenic family. Reporters hurled questions, all about the game.

"Mrs. Mayor!" a busybody from the Gotham Post called out. "We're seeing literally thousands of police heading into the sewers—"

"A training exercise, that's all." The mayor's winning smile grew slightly forced. She waved a Wildcats pennant in front of the cameras. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got tickets to watch our boys thrash Blüdhaven."

Ducking the press, she and her family were escorted to a private luxury box overlooking the horseshoe-shaped arena, whose bleachers were taken over almost entirely by black-and-yellow — the home team colors. An electronic scoreboard advertised major brands and products. More than two acres of natural grass covered the playing field, just waiting to be torn up by the competing teams.

This was the kick-off game of a brand new season and hopes were high that the Wildcats would go all the way this year. The mayor hoped so; a Super Bowl victory would not hurt her poll numbers.

She waved to the crowd as she took her seat beside her sons.

Now if Foley and his officers could just take of care of their little problem downstairs.

* * *

The GCPD had been searching the underground all afternoon without success. There seemed no end to the branching tunnels and sewers, which were practically a city in themselves. Weary cops and SWAT teams waded through the fetid water, sweeping their flashlights back and forth. Boots pounded on old brickwork or concrete, or else splashed through the disgusting drains.

A grid search based on outdated Gotham blueprints had them converging on the center of midtown, albeit well beneath the city streets. With any luck, they were closing in on the terrorists.

* * *

By the time the sun was starting to go down, Lt. Sarah Essen and three of her colleagues — detectives Marcus Driver and Josephine MacDonald, and a rookie — cruised through an ugly industrial district.

"We've been to what? Half of Daggett's cement plants?" the rookie asked from the driver's seat.

He could not help wishing that he was underground, taking part in the manhunt for Bane instead. That was where the real action was. He just could hope that his colleagues were okay.

"Can we have a break now? I'm feeling quite hungry and in need of a coffee."

"Patience, young grasshopper," Detective Driver replied as he consulted his notes. "I'm sure all of us could use some coffee right now, couldn't we, girls?" he asked, addressing the women in the back seat.

Josie chuckled and then quipped exasperatedly, "I'm dying for a Mocha plus some crumpets."

Grinning, Sarah shook her head without taking her eyes off the crumpled map on her lap. Red dots, scribbled on it, indicated all the pouring sites for underground construction their research had identified.

"Let's have a look on one more logged location and then we can make a break, okay?" she offered.

The young man uttered a soul-weary sigh. "I just hope this isn't a wild goose chase."

"Stop whining, rookie, and drive!" Josie demanded fiercely, slapping the back of the young officer's seat's headrest with both hands, causing him to startle.

Driver laughed and said, "Our next destination is near exit 56."

* * *

Some time later, the black full-size SUV pulled up to a cement factory on the outskirts of town. A chain-link fence topped with razor wire surrounded the grounds. Hot gases jetted from the heating tower. Storage silos rose above the plant. Grinding mills churned noisily.

The four cops jumped out and approached the gate. A guard scowled at their badges before letting them through the fence.

"Working on a Sunday?" Driver's asked the man suspiciously.

"We have a deadline to meet. Everyone's working overtime," the man replied grudgingly.

"UniCity Contracting's is keen to reshape Gotham's underground, huh?" Driver chaffed.

The guard just shrugged and then escorted them across the lot. Bags of powdered cement were piled high on wooden pallets, waiting to be shipped out. Metal bins and barrels sat upright amidst the pallets. A front loader was on hand to transport the bags and barrels onto trucks. Cement dust was everywhere.

The man checked his wristwatch and grumbled, "Boss is about to leave."

They walked past a parked cement mixer. Keeping all her senses alert, Sarah noticed an odd chemical odor and she struggled to remember where she knew that from. As Driver and MacDonald approached a couple of workers for questioning, she and the rookie wandered through the construction site, surveying the plant for anything out of ordinary.

The insistent odd odor caused her brow to furrow. She sniffed the air suspiciously, tracing the smell to a collection of unmarked steel barrels resting alongside the wooden pallets. However, before she could finally identify what was that, someone called out, "Hey, miss you can't walk through here."

A uniformed worker — who she assumed was the head around here — suddenly materialized across the path from where she was standing.

She turned toward him, pulled her badge from her pocket and held it in front of the man's face. "Lt. Sarah Essen, GCPD. We're—"

The man cut her off, "I don't care if you're cops. This is not an accident-free site. You can't just be strolling around without safety gear."

Trying to subdue her annoyance she gazed straight into his eyes. "Sir, I can easily file you as in contempt."

"Then do it," the man replied, crossing his arms belligerently, a stupid smirk on his face.

"C'mon Essen," MacDonald stepped in and took her friend's arm, dragging her to the next exit, where the other cops already were. "There's nothing left for us here. They are wrapping things up right now and we need a break."

"Are you serious?"

"Yep. The boys are already waiting for us. Everyone's getting a little bit cranky and tired of this. So…"

Sarah's head swung around as she glanced over her shoulder towards the steel barrels one last time before going alongside Josie, taking that whole scenario with pinch of salt.

* * *

Few moments later, Essen, Driver, MacDonald and the rookie were at a small neighborhood diner the officers frequented. Regular costumers were chatting amicably with the counter worker-owner. A waitress delivered their meals and conversation was brought back to life.

Josie made a face out of food on her plate and said to her partner, "My Goodness, these giant donuts are supposed to make me feel guilty enough to go to the Policeman's Ball with you, Driver."

"Oh, c'mon. You must admit you're just looking for a lame excuse to dance with me," he replied, grinning.

"I'm gonna make just a good deed. That's all."

"Jesus. You're a piece of work, you know that?"

"Been told that, yes."

The rookie laughed at their bartering dialogue while Sarah kept checking the city's map spread out over the table surface. Her entire steaming cup of coffee was drained with one large gulp and she finally began to lay her thoughts on the line.

"These addresses, they're listing where they've poured for underground construction," she said and then connected the dots with a red pencil. "Have you guys noticed these spots form a ring around the city's main tunnels?"

The laughing ceased immediately and three heads turned toward Sarah.

"And?" the rookie asked expectantly.

"That must mean something, right?" she speculated, eyebrows raised.

"My bet's on the theory that Bane's army is building some kind of net of subterranean hiding-places," Josie stated.

"But we haven't found anything strange about the pourings. I mean, paper trail is up to date and there was no telltale situation on these sites," the rookie chimed.

"Till now, young grasshopper," Marcus Driver mumbled through a full mouth.

"The last plant we went… Have you sensed a faint smell of melted plastic in the air? Reminded me of adhesive in surf wax…" Sarah mused as she nibbled a piece of donut.

"You never told me you're a surfer girl, sis," Josie said, giving the other woman's shoulder a push.

"I had a surfer boyfriend," Sarah replied with a shrug.

Looking a bit perturbed, Driver grabbed the map and his eyes frantically scanned it, hoping Essen's theory was wrong, but the unmistakable pattern of dots only confirmed his worst fears.

"PIB," he murmured, lost in his own thoughts.

"PIB?" the rookie asked, nonplussed.

"Polyisobutylene," Driver answered. "A synthetic rubber, which — among other things — is often used as a binding agent in plastic explosives."

An awful possibility hit Sarah with the force of revelation. "My Gosh! I saw motor oil over there." The pieces came together to form an alarming picture. "They weren't making cement —"

"—they were making explosives," MacDonald finished. Then her jaw dropped at the significance of her own words.

Instinctively, Driver rose from his seat and threw a handful of bills on the table — more than enough to cover the meal. "Let's take our leave now. We have to warn them before it's too late," he said urgently.

Feeling sick to her stomach, MacDonald somehow managed to pull her phone out of her pocket and dialed Gordon. "I'm gonna report it to the Commissioner."

Her boss's voicemail picked up.

"Commissioner," she started as all of them ran to the vehicle and climbed into it, taking their seats desperately.

Detective Driver dived behind the steering wheel and peeled out of the diner parking lot, spraying gravel behind him. He drove furiously back toward headquarters, pressing the gas pedal to the floor, while Sarah — in the passenger's seat — shouted into the radio, "Patch me into Foley!"

A maddeningly calm voice responded. "Deputy Commissioner Foley is overseeing the operation—"

"They're heading into a trap!"

* * *

Foley followed his men into the subway tunnel, putting the lights of the platform behind him. He was tired of waiting. He needed to check on the search with his own eyes.

"Sir!" a sergeant came running after him. He thrust a radio into Foley's hand. "It's Lt. Essen. She says it's urgent."

Foley took the radio. As much as he hated to admit it, the nosy blonde cop had been on the ball so far.

"Foley," she said.

"It's a trap!" Sarah's voice shouted. "Pull everyone out! Bane's been pouring concrete laced with explosives—"

Foley froze in his tracks.

"Where?"

"There's a ring around the tunnels," Sarah answered. "They're gonna blow it and trap the cops underground!"

Foley spun around and stared back at the mouth of the tunnel, which suddenly seemed dangerously far away. His mouth went dry.

"Pull out!" he shouted. "Pull 'em out!"

He raced toward the light.

* * *

The boiler room was in a sub-basement of the stadium, far below the cheering crowds. With all eyes on the field, no one was watching as Bane's men broke through the basement floor. Drills and explosive charges had carved out a path from the tunnels below. The mercenaries climbed up into the stadium.

Bane emerged from the underground. His utility harness was strapped to his chest.

Listening from the shadows to the National Anthem before the game, he uttered, "What a lovely, lovely voice."

It was hard to tell if he was really moved by the young boy's voice or if the comment was just a mockery as he imagined thousands of sports fans, standing at attention as they paid tribute to bombs bursting in the air. No doubt the elegant mayor had her hand over her heart.

The mercenaries advanced to the empty locker room tunnels. They took out their detonators.

Bane cocked his head at the sound of the kickoff and declared, "Let the games begin."

The men hit the detonators.

* * *

Foley scrambled for the light. Along with his men, he raced out of the subway tunnel only heartbeats before explosions rocked the underground. The tunnel roof collapsed behind him, and enormous slabs of concrete crashing down onto the tracks. Sparks flared from the electrified third rail.

A billowing cloud of dust and debris filled the station. Booming echoes were amplified by the tunnel walls, forcing him to throw his hands over his ears. Cops and SWAT team members dived for cover. An injured officer screamed.

Somehow Foley managed to stay on his feet. Panting, he made it all the way back to the passenger platform before turning around to inspect the damage. Pulverized stone and concrete caked his sweaty face. He coughed hoarsely, choking on the dust. His eyes bulged from their sockets.

_Oh my God…_

Tons of fallen concrete blocked the mouth to the tunnel. Frantic radio reports, coming from all around the city, confirmed Essen's dire prediction. Explosions and cave-ins had closed off every entrance to the underground, trapping thousands of cops beneath the city. Foley gazed in horror at the heap of rubble. He may have gotten out just in time, but what about the rest of his people?

He already knew the answer.

Practically the entire GCPD had been buried alive.

* * *

The football spiraled through the air.

The Gotham receiver caught the ball and made a break for the end zone. The hometown crowd went wild, screaming their lungs out as he started his run, pursued by the visiting linebackers. He ran past the mayor's box, guessing that she was cheering, as well, and ducked past a Blüdhaven cornerback who was trying to block him.

The looming goal posts called out to him. He could practically taste his victory.

But suddenly the mayor's box exploded, raining blood and debris onto the field. The cheers turned into screams. People panicked and leapt from their seats. Smoke blew over the field.

Nearing the Touchdown, the receiver glanced behind him, confused — and saw the grassy field drop away into the earth, swallowing players. Wildcats and Brawlers alike tumbled into a smoking chasm that seemed to be chasing after the receiver as eagerly as any opposing linebacker. The pigskin slipped from his fingers as he sprinted even faster than before, desperate to stay ahead of the collapsing field.

An earth-shaking rumble competed with the shrieks of more than sixty thousand spectators, many of whom were already stampeding for the exits. The terrified player stumbled past the end zone, abandoning all thought of scoring.

* * *

It was like the world was blowing up around the black SUV carrying Sarah Essen and her colleagues, with the flying asphalt splinters, some of them pretty large, clattering off the ground. Water gushed from broken fire hydrants. Street lamps toppled over, crashing onto streets and sidewalks.

Snapped electrical wires sparked and hissed. Pedestrians ran in terror. Horns honked frantically, adding to the tumult. Brakes squealed. Sirens blared. Vehicles collided.

Struggling to keep control of the vehicle, Detective Driver swerved wildly to avoid the bright orange flames shooting up from an open manhole. The other cops bounced up and down along the track, yelling at the absolute pandemonium to which they had been thrown, clinging to anything that could keep them anchored somehow.

Driver swore out loud, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles as the car erratically went forward through the streets.

The Westward Bridge collapsed behind them. The massive towers, deck, and cables crashed into the river in what appeared to be a controlled demolition. Dozens of cars, trucks, and taxis plunged down into the icy water.

"Omigod, omigod, omigod…" MacDonald kept wailing frantically whereas the rookie next to her looked panicked, unable to issue any coherent word.

Further ahead and off to the right, Sarah saw the Sprang Bridge come crashing down as well, severing the east side of midtown from the mainland. She guessed that the other bridges had been sabotaged, as well.

"They're cutting Gotham off from the world," she managed to speak up. "Why?"

Out of sudden, another eruption went off directly beneath the SUV, making the car to flip over out of control before coming to a halt onto its side violently. All of them cried out, bracing for impact.

The car skidded across the exploding asphalt. Sparks and the screeching of metal against asphalt created yet more chaos. Geysers of smoke and flame spewed around the careening vehicle.

The windshield got smashed. Metal crumpled around them. Thanks to the seatbelt and shoulder strap dug into them, no one had been thrown out of the vehicle. However everyone felt each impact.

As the SUV was lying on the driver's side with the wheels off the ground, Sarah was suspended above a groaning Marcus Driver. MacDonald was desperately trying to untangle herself from the seatbelt — while the rookie was unconscious, crushed under her body. Blood was dripping down his temple where he had slammed his head into the window.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	21. 21 Gets Burned By Fire - Pt2

**AN:** In case you're wondering how some characters look like physically (at least in my mind), here are a small list of some face claims:

_Mayor Marion Grange:__ Geena Davies OR Connie Britton OR Marcia Cross_

_Lt. Sarah Essen:_ _Elizabeth Mitchell OR Taylor Schilling OR Mireille Enos OR Emily Procter_

* * *

**21\. GETS BURNED BY FIRE - Part II**

The once-green football field was now a smoking wasteland except for one narrow strip of turf that had survived the disaster. Rubble and dead bodies littered what was left. The pigskin itself had vanished into the chasm.

No one noticed.

Bane's men poured out of the locker room tunnel and onto the ruined field, forming a protective gauntlet for his entrance. More soldiers, he knew, were posted at all the exits, preventing his audience from leaving before the show was over. He had no intention of performing to an empty house.

He strode into view like a gladiator entering the coliseum. Everywhere members of the panicked crowd sobbed and shouted as they realized there was no escape. He observed with satisfaction that the television cameras were swinging in his direction. By now, he calculated, the live footage was airing on every channel all over the world.

* * *

Gasping, Sarah managed to pull her aching body out through the open passenger's-side window, and then leaped toward the shattered asphalt. Glancing around, she took a brief moment to take in her surroundings. She gasped at the scene of battle aftermath before her. Flames and smoke still belched up from below. From every direction, the city screamed with the panicked sound of alarms. Fallen bodies lay everywhere. Injured people were walking around like zombies separated from their horde.

MacDonald's cries for help drew Sarah out of her reverie. She clambered over the SUV's passenger side — which was now facing up — and struggled to open the door.

"Calm down, Josie. I'm going to open the door. You think you can get out all by yourself?"

"Jesus, Sarah! I think Officer Park is dead…" Josie-Mac stammered, naming the rookie for the first time that day. She was on the verge of tears. Her body had tumbled in a weird way across the backseat, coming to rest head over heels against the rookie, whose body was unable to move, sandwiched between her and the door on his side.

Groaning, Sarah took advantage of the sudden rush of adrenaline and finally was able to force open the jammed door. She reached for Josie's hand and helped to pull the other woman up and out of the car.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"I-I don't know." Shaking, Josie assessed her physical condition warily. As nearly as she could tell, she was scraped and bruised all over, but nothing seemed to be broken. "I guess so."

They both looked into the car and called the men.

"C'mon, rookie, talk to me!" MacDonald shouted at him in desperation. No answer. Blood was trickling from his forehead.

"Marcus? Marcus, can you hear me?" Sarah asked tentatively.

"Yeah," he mumbled, his voice hoarse with pain. "Oh, yes, let me catch my breath."

He tried to release his seatbelt, but it was stuck. "Hell, I'm stuck." He signed off and began surveying the situation. "My jackknife is in the glove box. You think you can reach it?"

Sarah's arms stretched into the vehicle and managed to find the knife. "I got it."

"Now throw it to me. Carefully," Driver instructed.

She did as she was told and he slashed at the seatbelt. With some effort and with the aid of the women, he squeezed out of the overturned car and hopped up next to them.

He spit a mouthful of blood onto the charred pavement. "Are you guys okay?" he asked a bit breathless.

"Yeah," MacDonald answered, trying to keep her voice as steady as possible. "What about you?"

He was holding his left arm as if injured. "I'm gonna be. Just gimme a minute or two."

"We need to get Park out. He might be hurt really bad," Sarah reminded them.

Arduously, the three of them succeeded in dragging the rookie's still unconscious body out of the car. Sarah probed his throat with her fingers and gave small pats on his face.

"C'mon, man! Wake up!"

His lids twitched. He blinked and grimaced. The gash on his forehead trickled a steady stream of blood that soaked his shirt. He surely would need quite a few stitches.

Sarah let out a breath she did not realize she had been holding and smiled gratefully up at the rookie's face.

Gasping, Driver knelt to check on the man. "Hey, dude, how ya doin'?"

Officer Park moaned and then replied groggily, "Feeling like I'm broken all over." Despite his injuries, he somehow managed to keep a cheerful demeanor. He carefully glanced around. "What happened?"

"What happened?" MacDonald echoed in disbelief. "We're in the middle of the apocalypse. Just it."

"We need to know what's going on," Sarah prompted. Once again she reached inside the tumbled cabin. Straining, she managed to snag onto the radio. As she did so, a burst of static hurt her ears.

"Foley?" she asked anxiously.

"Jesus, Essen!" Foley answered, sounding hoarse and understandably distraught. "Every cop in the city's down in those tunnels."

She glanced at her battered-looking colleagues. "Not every cop." For a moment, something flashed in her mind.

_Gordon..._

"Nobody knows what really happened all over town," Foley continued. Static added to the despair on his voice.

"Listen up, Foley. Detectives Driver and MacDonald and Officer Park are here with me. Park and Driver need medical attention. I'll see what I can do and then I'll get in touch, okay?"

"Okay."

Racing against time, she pried a shotgun from inside the van, get out of it and leaped onto the ground.

"Look guys, I'm gonna get the Commish. Will you be fine without me?"

"Of course," Driver stated. "Josie and I can handle everything for now."

"Really?"

"Yep. We're gonna take care of the rookie here. Just go."

She nodded and spotted a silver sedan that was cautiously making its way down the broken street. Scrambling to her feet, Sarah ran to flag it down.

"GCPD. I need your vehicle, sir. It's an emergency."

* * *

Gordon's heart-rate monitor started beeping rapidly and a sick feeling of dread took up residence in his gut as he stared impassively at the small counter TV, watching the once green football field to be turned into nothing but a jumble of bodies and wreckage. Then the dread solidified into abject terror as he realized the implications of what had just happened.

_Babs_, was his only thought.

His youngest child was among the thousands of fans who attended this game. He promptly snatched his phone from the bedside table and went to his daughter's contact. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. He gritted his teeth.

"Come on, hon. Just answer the damn phone!" Four rings, five rings, voicemail. Jim swore out loud and dialed the number again without taking off his eyes from the television. No answer again.

Appalled, he observed Bane moving toward a dead umpire who lay sprawled upon the turf. The man's headset appeared to have survived and Bane plucked it from the man's remains. The panicked crowd grew hushed as Bane took command. He held out his arm for silence and raised the mike to the mouthpiece of his mask.

"Gotham!" he exhorted in front of the cameras. "Take control of your city—"

All of sudden, some sort of commotion outside Gordon's room caught his attention more than Bane's speech. Screams, shouts, and the occasional burst of gunfire came from downstairs, as if the hospital lobby was under attack by persons unknown.

He had a pretty good idea he knew who was behind this disturbance — and who they were coming for. The bastard terrorists would not give a truce so soon.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs. He heard the invaders moving from room to room. Terrified patients screamed and shouted for help. Nurses and orderlies ran and hid. Occasionally there was the sound of a gunshot. Gordon realized that it was only a matter of moments before they found him.

He needed to check out of the hospital, and pronto.

Clenching his teeth to keep from crying out, he painfully dragged himself from the bed. His stitched wounds hated every movement, but held together — at least for the time being. He wheeled his IV tree across the floor. The needle in his arm hurt every time he jostled it. His bare feet shuffled over the cold tiles.

This was not what the doctor ordered.

* * *

The streets were full of confused and frightened people. Sarah swerved the commandeered sedan around the shell-shocked pedestrians while dodging random gouts of flame and smoke. Smoke and soot blackened the faces of the stunned survivors. Rubble and smoking craters made for a bumpy ride that jarred Sara's spine all the way across town.

Toppled street lights and broken pavement turned the streets into an obstacle course. It was like driving through a war zone, which was apparently what Gotham had become. News reports coming over the car's radio claimed that terrorists had killed the mayor and taken control of the football stadium. More than sixty thousand people were being held hostage, while most of the police were still trapped underground.

_I can't worry about that now_, she thought. She knew who Bane's next target would be. _If I'm not already too late._

The sedan squealed to a halt in front of the hospital. Sarah bolted from the vehicle and raced up the steps into the lobby, which was worryingly deserted. Bullet holes perforated the walls and ceiling. Broken glass was strewn over the floor. The gift shop and reception desk had been shot up.

She heard gunshots upstairs.

_Crap_, she thought. _They've found Gordon._

Taking the stairs two steps at a time, she dashed up to the commissioner's floor. She burst into the corridor, gun high, only to freeze as she felt a warm steel gun muzzle at the base of her skull. The heat of the metal told her that the gun had been recently fired.

She swallowed hard. For a second, she thought it was all over for her.

"Clear the corners, lieutenant," Gordon scolded her.

Sarah turned to see Gordon, wearing a rumpled hospital gown, lower his trusty Smith &amp; Wesson. Four dead mercs lay in the hallway. Fearful patients peeked around the doors that led to their rooms.

"Get my coat," Gordon ordered. "Let's get out of here!"

* * *

In Washington, DC, Air Force General Matthew Armstrong walked briskly through the corridors of the Pentagon, followed closely by half-dozen officials of the Defense Department. As soon as they reached the end of a long corridor, the five stars General pushed open the doors and stepped into the National Military Command Center, also known as the '_War Room'._

Inside there, rows of state-of-the-art computer and communications stations faced a huge array of illuminated maps and screens. Live footage from Gotham Stadium dominated the central screen as teams of analysts and military staff members, along with the rest of the world, attempted to assess the ongoing — and unprecedented — situation.

More than three hundred personnel watched with concern as the terrorists rolled an ominous-looking device onto what remained of the playing field. The glowing metal sphere was mounted atop a wheeled trolley. Its design did not match any weapon of mass destruction with which the great majority of them were familiar.

"This is the instrument of your liberation," Bane declared. CIA analysts had already identified the masked madman as the same terrorist who had staged the attack on Gotham's MoMA few days ago. Apparently, that had just been his opening number.

"Satellite shows a radiation spike," an analyst reported. "Whatever it is, it's nuclear."

The tension in the room shot up another notch. All eyes remained glued to the monitors, where the terrorists dragged a bedraggled, middle aged man onto the field and thrust him to his knees before Bane.

"Identify yourself to the world," the terrorist leader ordered.

"Dr. Leonid Pavel," the man said, his voice shaking. "Nuclear physicist—"

Bane turned the scientist's face toward the cameras, even as intelligence experts scrambled to verify the man's identity.

"Pavel's been reported missing and possibly dead," a CIA analyst reported, calling up the data from a computer. "Plane crash on an agency pull out of Vlatava." She compared the man on the monitor to a photo from their database. "Facial recognition system is matching."

The general rubbed his chin, pondering the situation. This was getting more serious by the moment. He stared up at an illuminated screen tracking their response.

A squadron of F-22 fighter jets was already streaking toward Gotham.

On the TV monitors, Bane placed a hand on Pavel's shoulder. The kneeling scientist shuddered visibly.

"Tell the world what this is," Bane instructed.

"A fully primed neutron bomb. With a blast radius of six miles."

Bane nodded.

"And who can disarm this device?"

"Seemingly only me."

"Thank you, doctor."

With the whole world watching, Bane effortlessly snapped the scientist's neck. Pavel's body dropped onto the grass. Screams erupted from the bleachers. People gasped in the war room.

"The bomb is armed," Bane said, ignoring the screams. "The bomb is mobile, the identity of the triggerman is a mystery. One of you holds the detonator. We come not as conquerors, but as liberators to return control of this city to the people. At the first sign of interference from the outside world, or of people attempting to flee, this anonymous Gothamite — this unsung hero — will trigger the bomb. For now, martial law is in effect. Return to your homes, hold your families close, and wait." He threw out his arms. "Tomorrow you claim what is rightfully yours."

Bane turned and left the field. His men rolled the bomb after him, leaving Dr. Pavel's body behind on the desecrated turf.

A hush fell over the war room.

"Pull back the fighters," the general said finally, breaking the silence. "Start high-level reconnaissance flights. And get the President on the line."

_God help us all_, he thought.

* * *

Gotham Bridge was the only one left standing. By sunset, tanks and troops were already advancing on the city. Captain Willis Parker, in charge of the operation, just wished he had a clearer sense of their mission strategy. How did one recapture a city being held hostage?

A squad of mercenaries held the bridge. There was no sign of Bane, but one of his men stepped forward, holding a bullhorn. An amplified voice challenged the approaching army.

"Tanks and planes cannot stop us from detonating our device," he warned with a slight foreign accent. "Send an emissary to discuss terms of access for supplies and communication."

Captain Parker figured that was his cue. After a hasty conference with his superiors, he marched toward the apex of the bridge, his hands held open in front of him. Washington was anxious to hear the terrorists' demands, so he walked until he was within spitting distance of the enemy. The lead terrorist had the shaggy, undisciplined look of a professional mercenary — and the dead eyes of a stone-cold killer.

"I'm Captain Parker, son. I've come to negotiate an agreement. Let me speak to your leader—"

"I'm afraid you're in no position to demand anything, Captain," Barsad — Bane's right-hand — replied, regarding the other man evenly, his face serenely calm.

The military officer twisted his lips almost imperceptibly and peered beyond Barsad's shoulder. "How many of you are there?" he asked, receiving only a sullen glare in response. Staring the man squarely in the eye, he attempted to give the terrorists a much-needed reality check. "You don't have enough men to stop twelve million people leaving that island."

"No. We don't," the mercenary conceded. "But you do."

The captain snorted.

"Why in hell would we help you keep your hostages?"

"Because if people start crossing the bridge, Gotham gets blown to hell." He did not sound like he was bluffing.

Confronted with such a ghastly scenario, Parker tried to think of a compelling counter-argument, but failed. It was hard to argue with an armed nuclear weapon.

* * *

In a nationally televised speech, the President of the United States addressed the nation: "The people of our greatest city are resilient," he said. "They have proven this before, and they will prove this again."

Breaking live news were being broadcasted all over the world. In a busy street of Tokyo, crowds stood in front of a Department store, their eyes fixed on front window-mounted television screens. US troops deployed in Bagram gathered in front of a monitor set, staring intently at the screen as the sun started to break through the early morning. Speechless, night-shift staff in a hospital in London stopped their duties for a moment to know what was going on the other side of the Atlantic. In San Francisco, a wide-eyed family flocked around a 50 inch plasma in the family room, transfixed by the distressing news from the other coast of the country.

"We do not negotiate with terrorists," the President continued, "but we do recognize realities…"

* * *

The darkened streets were all but deserted, as Gotham's cowed citizens took seriously Bane's admonition to stay indoors. Sarah warily drove toward home, while Gordon slumped beside her in the passenger seat. The lieutenant tried to avoid the craters, cracks, and rubble, but Gordon still flinched at every bump. The rough drive had to be hard on his wounds.

They listened grimly to the President's speech.

"As the situation develops, one thing must be understood above all others. People of Gotham, we have not abandoned you."

"Which means we're on our own," Gordon translated, checking his phone for the umpteenth time.

"Got anything on Barbara?" Sarah asked.

"She left me a voice message saying she's fine and that she's staying at a friend's. They're the same people who took her to the game. They're a nice family. At least I know she's safe."

Sarah scowled at the radio. "None of this feels real. What are we gonna do?"

"We need to regroup those of us who didn't get trapped into the tunnels and formulate a plan," he decided.

She frowned. "Sir, I don't wanna sound like a spoilsport, but we'll all be screwed the second we attempt any type of resistance. We're outnumbered, outgunned, and definitely out-strategized."

Gordon shook his head, almost amused, almost condescending. "We're at war, lieutenant. Out there, it's chaos, plain and simple. The mayor's dead. We're the only order left in this burg, and if we want the burg to survive, it's up to us to impose it on the rest of the island. And the only way to do that is by being stronger, by being meaner."

He gave a long sigh and then continued, "Perhaps there's still a chance for all of us. _He_ won't turn us away."

Sarah quickly realized about whom he was talking. "And you're gonna pin all your hopes on only one man?" she asked. "_He_ might be with his hands as tied as the rest of us."

Gordon did not reply, just stared silently out the window.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	22. 22 Taking Sides

**AN: **Don't forget to read and review please.

* * *

**22\. TAKING SIDES**

"_Find the best in everybody. Just keep waiting no matter how long it takes. No one is all evil. Everybody has a good side, just keep waiting, it will come out." - Randy Pausch, The Last Lecture_

_**9 years ago**_

The luxury cottage stood imposing on the shoreline of Lake Leman, Switzerland, as the rosy sky of very early morning started to get more golden with each second. The view from the sitting room was a breathtaking panorama of the marina and the mountain range running on the opposite lakeshore.

Dressed in a flannel robe, Nattie walked to the window, a mug of hot cocoa warming her hands. After so many years, she felt like home again. She had been born in those mountains, had experienced what was happiness and loneliness there. It seemed another life to her, an earlier incarnation of which she carried only traces in her mind.

Quite a number of years had passed since '_la pauvre orpheline' _had left the Catholic orphanage at the majestic mountains of the Swiss Alps. Guided by a mysterious guardian, she had trained extensively and performed many acts until metamorphosing herself into the cunning, distinguished, well-educated and much-traveled lady that she presented to the world.

She cringed, feeling like a complete fraud.

Underneath the mask, she was a tormented woman driven by the desire to make the world right, seeking for consolation and peace for her soul. To know the real Ms. St. Dumas was a privilege — or perhaps a curse — granted to very few people.

And one of these few people decided to grace her with his presence in this chilling autumn morning.

He seemed like a ghost, standing in the darkness of the hallway, watching her place her mug over a side table and then light up the fireplace.

"Hello, angel," the muffled voice came as a bolt from the blue.

Nattie, startled, turned to meet him. A few moments of silence prevailed as if she found no words. Or breath with which to say them. A mix of shock and horror was on her face.

She felt an overwhelming sense of familiarity at the sight of that masked man, and yet it felt like he was an intruder breaking into her sanctuary. For this brute mercenary had very little in common with the protective younger man she had known in the past and had regarded as a big brother, a friend and a savior. And his eyes had changed the most. Apart from the familiar shape and hue, they were bottomless, daunting. Whatever lay inside him now was much more darker than before.

"What… where the hell did you...?" She trailed off, biting her lower lip and blinking rapidly, unable to form a coherent sentence.

Bane strode toward her, his eyes shining as if he was almost as affected as she was by their meeting.

"Good to see you, too, angel," he said sarcastically.

She seemed to draw herself taller and retreat behind some kind of defence at the same time. "I wish I could say the same. But something tells me this isn't exactly a social call."

"Always so insightful!" His tone again contained a heavy dose of irony.

She took a seat on the comfortable couch and motioned for him to do the same on the opposite seat, which he promptly did.

"I've been following your exploits from a distance. You've been busy and wouldn't appear out of thin air just to chitchat."

Nattie watched his eyes change from surprised to curious and then to appreciation.

"You still care about me," he said. It was a statement rather than a question.

"You may not believe it, but I always will."

"I heard about your father and I am so sorry. I know you two were at odds—"

Nattie stiffened. "And you were one of the reasons. I could not truly forgive him… for what he did to you… to us." An old resentment crept into her voice.

"And yet you loved him."

A cold smirk pulled at her lips. "He was my father, despite all of his hurtful flaws. Now any chance of reconciliation with him is completely gone."

He breathed heavily under his mask. The weird sound reverberated throughout the room. "I know how you feel, angel. I feel the same. The opportunity for closure was taken away from our hands. We were left being eaten up inside by things unsaid, unfinished."

"I feel restless, unable to grieve as I think I should," she admitted with a little catch in her voice.

Bane stared at her for a minute as though considering what and how much to say. "I have a solution that will suit us both."

Her eyes narrowed, sharp with speculation.

"It involves hard work on both our parts." He shot her a warning glance before continuing, "But I can assure you that if you are willing to honor the memory of our mentor, the sacrifice will be worth it."

"And what do you want in return?"

"Only your allegiance," Bane answered with serious expression behind his mask, the conviction in his eyes, in his voice. He held out a crumpled piece of newspaper, pointing to a black and white picture. "This man killed Rã's al Ghul. He betrayed the League and destroyed everything I considered home, family. He shouldn't be allowed to get away with that. He needs to be punished."

"You want blood," she said thoughtfully, studying the handsome dark-haired man whose face plastered the small piece of paper.

He looked away from eyes that saw too much. "Indeed. I want to see him dead."

Nattie was not sure if she liked the sound of that. "What if I'm not interested?"

"I look at you and see how much you fight to be free, how much you pursue a life where you control your own fate."

She threw him a look of reproach. "I already control my own fate."

"But you still feel trapped by your parentage and circumstances."

"What will vengeance solve anything?"

Her question made Bane suck in a sharp breath. "These are the ways of the League."

"Why are you still loyal to the League if you know in your heart that your banishment has cost you any chance of taking Rã's' place? Why do you care about his death? He excommunicated you. You don't owe him anything."

"Oh but you're wrong. I owe him everything. If it wasn't for him, I'd still living in that dark and stinky pit. He saved my life in more ways that you would ever believe."

Feeling a little stab of pain to accompany the familiar guilt, she glanced away and out of the window.

In an instant he was on his feet, reaching up to touch her cheek tenderly, barely tracing the bloom on the curve of satin skin. The unexpected and fleeting gesture of comfort brought a lump to her throat, and she let her face rest against the warmth of his hand.

"Think of it, angel, a fresh start for both of us, without these old ties and old sorrows," Bane spoke softly into the tight silence that began to throb between them.

He pulled away long enough to hand her a thick notebook with a leather cover from his heavy jacket.

"This belonged to your father. Guess he would have liked you to have it."

Nattie took it cautiously and scanned the front cover. It was her father's diary. She glanced up, finding her voice at last, "Bane… I still think of a world in which we met differently, lived differently." And then she put a hand over his arm, squeezing them gently.

He rested his hand over hers, meeting her searching gaze with troubled eyes, eyes that were filled with sincerity and pain.

"As do I, angel," he uttered in a sultry voice, and then walked off before she could say anything else.

* * *

_**Present time**_

Nattie woke up in darkness again.

Her cheeks were wet, her heart battering her chest, the reminiscences of a bad dream still taunting her mind. Yet she had the strange sensation that someone had been watching over her sleep, protecting her.

She breathed deeply and tried to be composed.

Until few days ago her life had been on track, her world relatively safe and secure, the last step towards some form of closure for her predicament about to be taken. But that safe, secure world had crashed. She had been so naive, thinking she could get rid of the ghosts from her past without consequences; thinking she could look into the eyes of her father's killer as his world tore apart.

But since the first time she had laid her eyes on Bruce Wayne nothing had been going according to plan. The moment she had known him better all bets were off on every score because Bruce was not the thankless, dilettante heir she had believed he was.

Her image of his had been turned on its head and blurred out of recognition by one inescapable truth — he was responsible for waking something inside her waiting to be set free. Something so powerful and unprecedented that had thrown her in a sea of conflicted emotions. It scared her witless.

In her blind thirst for revenge, she had thought she could give him the justice he deserved. But all she had achieved was to leave Gotham City under the dominion of fear.

What on earth had she done? Suddenly all the injustice in the world swirled and spun like threads and blame and hope all intermingled and tangled. And she hoped to God it was not too late to do something to make up for it.

She knew no one could turn back the clock. No one could undo what had been done five minutes ago any more than it could undo what had happened in the past ten years. But while there was still a chance, however small, to make an escape and save the city, she would fight tooth and nail for it.

As she started to devise her strategic plan, Nattie capitulated to the fact that, if she intended to succeed, she would need Gotham's greatest symbol of hope. It did not matter that he still was an untrustworthy murderer in her eyes. She had no intention of redeeming the Dark Knight but she needed him desperately, period.

The positive news was he was just a few dozen feet away from her cell. However, the bad, bad news was that Wayne was so badly wounded that he might not survive. And if he did, would he forgive her deception? Could he? She had basically set up an elaborate plot against him and manipulated some of his closest allies and situations in favor of her side. He was in that deplorable state in the first place because of her schemes and machinations.

Maybe now was the time to be the woman the word thought she was — the cold and stern woman who took exactly what she wanted in life and discarded what she did not.

With that in mind, Nattie slowly got up off of the floor and walked out of her cell. Unsurprisingly, she was a little dazed from the lack of food and water.

Propping herself against the cold walls, she made her way quietly through a long hallway on which several stairways and platforms connected the four levels of the dungeons. It was hot and sultry, and the stench of organic matter was unmistakable.

Around the wide central atrium, jail cells of dozens of prisoners could be seen above and below. Disembodied sounds came from every direction. No one had quite dared to catcall, though there were some ominous mutterings here and there.

She steeled herself to move forward and her feet led her unerringly toward Bruce's cell. In front of the iron gates, she peered inside the jail hesitantly. There were three makeshift beds, but only one, far from the bars, was occupied.

"Talia," said a stranger's voice suddenly.

Nattie froze in place, feeling her cheeks heating and being grateful for the semi darkness. That name should mean something to her but sounded foreign to her ears. It was only a reminder of another time, of another life. Something that hardly still belonged to her, something she was no longer worthy of it.

She turned around, surprised, and the stranger looked surprised too. He studied her in an admiring manner, noticing that her face had lost all the plumpness of youth, had been chiseled into a masterpiece of refinement and uncompromising character.

"Adulthood sits well on you. You've changed a little, but I'd recognize these silver eyes anywhere. They're just like your father's."

She frowned further, and then tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry. She glanced closer and, though he seemed to have aged lots of decades and had deep, dark circles under his eyes, she instantly recognised his features.

"Doc?" she asked in a whisper. "Is that you?" He did not look much like the doctor she once had known, not wandering around this prison dressed in tatters like a pauper.

White Hair looked into her shocked eyes and nodded. "I'm afraid so."

She gasped, gazing in horror at his ravaged face. "What they did to you? Why are you here?"

The doctor shrugged and offered her a lopsided smile. "Let's say I incurred the displeasure of important people. Just like you, I presume."

Nattie only nodded in response.

He kept on walking into the cavernous cell and she walked beside him. As they approached Bruce's cot, she ventured to cast a glance upon the still figure lying helplessly under the ragged covers, and what she saw made her feel real sick.

Even by dim light she could see how terrible he looked. His face was thinner and pale, and his eyes were sunken in wide bruised circles. Three days' worth of dark stubble covered his erst clean-shaven jaw, and his hair was plastered with perspiration. Nattie let her eyes drift down over his battered body, noticing that in a matter of a couple of days he had lost weight and muscle mass.

The legend she had once pledged to bring about an end laid bare down there. Powerless. Human. Mortal.

Oddly, Nattie found no satisfaction on that picture. She turned to the doctor and asked, tilting her head to Bruce's direction, "How is he?"

"He's still alive; just passed out from the pain."

Swallowing the bitter taste of regret, she lowered herself onto the seat at his bedside. "Will he get out of this?"

White Hair sighed heavily as he moved through the cell, gathering some dirty cloths and utensils. "Hard to tell. His fever's down but he has multiple fractures, several internal wounds, and a broken back."

She touched Wayne lightly on the arm while the doctor continued, "Despite vertebra fracture being only a hairline, he can't move, it hurts too much."

Definitely not a promising situation.

Unhesitatingly, Nattie straightened up and gripped the doctor by the tip of his sleeve. "Can you help him? I know I have no right to ask you anything, but I have no one else to turn to. And he needs your help."

She could not help it. She ached for him. Even though she fought against the feeling, there was no denying that she hated seeing him this vulnerable and exposed.

Her plea caught White Hair off guard and, although she looked tortured, he did not try to sell any false hope. "I had no drugs here, nothing medical," he replied automatically.

Her attempt for admonition was cut short when he announced, pointing to Bruce, "He's coming round."

Nattie's head swivelled to face the man lying down and started in shock as his eyes opened and a pair of piercing dark irises met hers. Recognition dawned in Bruce's gaze, and her heart wrenched as he smiled at her, his eyes shining in genuine delight. She felt the connection between them as if it were a tangible thing — strong, bright and warm. Her lips automatically curved in response.

"Natalia?" Bruce's voice cracked a little, as if it was rusty and disused.

"It's me," she replied shakily. "I'm here."

She felt her eyes well with tears. Her throat choked up, and she reached out to take his hand. The tension that had eased in her body kicked back in and a single fat tear spilled down her cheek as she felt his fingers close tight around hers. Almost all the heartache she had felt for him all those years gone with that simple act.

He sighed, and his eyes slid closed again. A few seconds passed before he croaked, "I died and gone to heaven."

Something between a chuckle and a sob escaped from deep inside Nattie's soul. She fought back the urge to hold all of him tenderly in her arms.

Bruce blinked slowly, confusion written across his face as if he was trying to understand a difficult fact. "You look like hell," he murmured to her as he stared up into her shimmering and reddened eyes.

_So do you, _she thought grimly, but replied with a touch of sauciness, "You really know how to make a gal feel good."

His sardonic remark, so startling at first, had the benefit of waking up what was left of her caustic wit. It felt good, Nattie realized. Good because she was so tired of being worried and sad. And angry.

"How do you feel, Bruce?" she asked.

"It still hurts like the dickens," he told her, the angles of his face sharp from the pain.

Nattie's heart contracted. She smoothed his hair back, wishing she could take all the hurt from his body away.

"Are you okay? Did they hurt you?" he asked, studying her features in worry, the pain seemed to be momentarily forgotten.

"I'll be fine," she answered, desperately wanting to believe it.

On the other side of the bed the doctor cleared his throat to get their attention.

* * *

Moments before, through his personal fog of fever, Bruce had thought he was hallucinating. Reality and dream had merged into the ethereal view of Natalia Saint Dumas at his side, like an angel, clear and visible, worried and gentle.

The soft sound of her voice felt like a resurrection after the death his spirit had suffered. His eyes fluttered open until they were able to stay focused. For a second or two, he tried to reason whether she was really here or it was just another trick of his feverish mind.

He closed his eyes for what seemed like an eternity and when he opened them again, there she was still, glaring right back down at him. He frowned, blinking in confusion, noticing just how much she looked disheveled, out of place. A nasty dark bruise marred her left cheek, indicating that she had been beaten.

Then he recalled what the old healer had told him just before he had blacked out for the last time — there was a girl down there. His hands tightened into fists as he took in the sight. Frustration, anger and guilt — Bruce felt them all as she came to stand before him in that way.

However, even though he was too darn worn out to get shocked at the implications that her presence there could signify for the other inmates, several other questions kept spinning through his uneasy mind.

Would Bane be so vile to the point of extending his revenge to someone who had nothing to do with their quarrel? Had that bastard dragged her to that hell for the sole purpose of hitting him in every possible way?

Thank Heavens, Alfred had left before he could be caught in the crossfire too.

He knew he had to say something to her. Something that would put her worries aside. Then, he tried to swallow and discovered that while it was not easy, it was not painful, either, and when he spoke the first thing that came to mind, he did not feel as if the words were ripping the flesh of his throat. Yet, he was sore all over, and any movement more than a simple head nod sent searing stabs through his spine.

He kept lying perfectly still, but the pain had returned with a vengeance when she had asked him how he was doing. Her tender touch, soon afterwards, send a spark of hope and peace to his aching senses.

White Hair chose that moment to make his presence heard.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," he said, giving Bruce a sympathetic smile, his gaze studious as he regarded the American. In his long, slender fingers, he held a clay mug.

"No more talking now," he continued, his voice like his mien — compassionate, but with iron behind it. "Drink this."

Nattie slid an arm around his shoulders and carefully drew him up, so the doctor could raise the mug to his dry, cracked lips. He drank it eagerly, swallowing with difficulty, feeling like it was the sweetest water he had ever tasted.

"Very good, _ajnabi_," White Hair declared and placed a piece of Pita bread soaked in water to Bruce's lip.

After a couple of nibbles, Bruce forced himself to straighten up as much as he backache allowed. He gasped, clenching his teeth in pain, then glared at his caretaker, "Why are you helping me?"

The nameless doctor shrugged and gave him a wry look. "Someone wants me to keep you alive."

Bruce hissed, bitter. Of course Bane did not want him to die, but they both understood there were many steps before one would die.

"In exchange for what?" he asked the other man, who in turn totally blew him off. That had the power of igniting Bruce's anger even more. "Whatever he has promised you, you think his word is worth anything?"

For a flicker of time he saw something deeper than pain cross those weary eyes, but he did not have time to ponder because Nattie spoke, peacemaking.

"Bruce, please. He's just trying to help."

He sneered. "If he really wanted to help me, he would put an end to my suffering."

White Hair stood up. "He's not interested in killing you," he replied, without looking into the American's eyes. "Not until he's taken away everything you care about. I'll check back later."

That being said, he exited, leaving them alone, which irritated Bruce all over again. Nattie met his gaze and his expression gentled a bit.

"I'm so sorry," she said, trying for amiable.

Pulling back, he stared at her for a long moment, drinking in her fragile beauty. Her vulnerability. She did not sound distressed and he could only try to imagine the numbness that went soul-deep.

"I believe that should me my line. I'm so sorry that you have to go through all of this," he told her shakily, a look of apology spreading across his face. "You must think I'm a son of a gun, right?"

"Seems the appropriate response. But given the circumstances, I have a hand on it too."

He grimaced, shaking his head slightly. "No, you're not supposed to be here! You've just got caught in the middle of a situation that you didn't anticipate. Bane's feud is with me."

"He needed me," she replied automatically and Bruce raised his brows in question. "Well, more precisely my fingerprints to get access to the reactor. He told me what he intends to do."

"Did he tell you why?"

While Nattie took her time to answer, she twisted her lips slightly like a small child and lowered her head. Bruce found it cute and very distracting.

"He plans to start this utopia of his by destroying you bit by bit," she told him, perching on the edge of the cot. "I suppose it's personal for him."

Saint Dumas was no dumb and Bruce guessed she probably had some questions for him. It seemed like the right time to share his secrets. Although it caused him a certain apprehension, he found the prospect of doing quite intriguing and oddly attractive.

"Natalia," he began, obviously having trouble, "there are some things I haven't told you about me."

"You haven't told me anything about you. All I know is you're very good at taking a beating."

There was a long beat before he spoke again, "I, uh... Well, I think I owe you an explanation."

She eyed him with an expression of amusement as if a half-laugh was bubbling up, then sobered. She seemed to find his hesitation entertaining.

"Well, in case you're wondering if I've found out about your other self, the answer is yes."

Soever the answer raised more questions than it resolved, Bruce released a sigh he did not know he was holding. Whatever was going on through her mind, she did not sound mad, and that was a relief.

He could not help the sheepish smile that tugged at his lips as he asked, "Surprised?"

Nattie shrugged. "Not particularly. It figures once you connected the right dots."

Bruce certainly hoped not too many people being able to connect the right dots. Over the years, he had been done his best to keep Batman's identity a secret, and certain secrets ought to stay classified for good.

He then reached for her hand as something between anguish and concern darkened his eyes, transforming them into a pair of razor-sharp orbs. "Bane has teamed up with Daggett. That's why that filthy bastard was trying to get control of the company. I never realized how sick he was, but apparently—"

As it was to be expected at the mention of Daggett's name, her eyes cooled, her posture stiffened.

"John is dead, Bruce. Bane made it very clear that if I didn't cooperate, I would have the same fate as him. Daggett was just another pawn in his sick game."

He swore softly and his grip on her hand tightened. Apparently, in his attempt to destroy Bruce, Bane had manipulated Daggett — and perhaps other people — into unwittingly helping him.

"I was careless. Arrogant. I was taken in." Bruce conceded. His arrogance and hunger for setting things right quickly had been the fatal flaw that had led to his downfall.

"It's one way of putting it." Her tone was dry, neutral. Her expression bland, her eyes unreadable.

"I was stupid enough for taking Bane for a merely merc. I was so wrong about him. Now Gotham will pay the price." His tight voice held definite traces of rage, bitterness and old hurt.

At his words, a shadow crossed Nattie's eye and she felt the tears threatening to spill over again.

"Making assumptions about people is usually the first step toward getting it totally wrong." Hugging her arms around her middle, she studied him with sympathy before adding in a comforting voice, "But I know that if there's someone who can fix this mess, it's you, Bruce."

Wayne looked at her as if she was completely bonkers. How she expected him to do that if his spine had been snapped? He could barely move — the pain was excruciating — let alone fight against a beast like Bane.

"How?" he hissed icily. He schooled his voice to neutral except it did not come out the way he had intended. "I'm lying here like a turtle on its back, helpless. We're locked up in who knows where, thousands of miles away from Gotham. We not even know how much time is left for me to stop this madness."

Nattie brushed a tendril of damp hair from his brow. The gentle gesture had the power to soothe him a bit.

"Something tells me that won't stop you," she insisted with mothering affection. Though she held his gaze steadily, he saw doubts and schemes stir in the depths.

Bruce lay back, sullen. The argument, his worries about Gotham's uncertain future, had exhausted him.

Knowing this conversation was over, Nattie rose, and without another word, left him to his own, immersed in somber thoughts.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	23. 23 Shadow Warfare

**AN:** Dear reader, thank you for taking the time to read my fic. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. The next will be centered on Bruce/Talia again. Don't forget to review, please.

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**23\. SHADOW WARFARE**

"_But a kingdom that has perished cannot be restored, nor can the dead ever be brought back to life." - Sun Tzu, The Art Of War_

The day after Bane's colossal expression of violence, most of the streets remained deserted. Shops were closed, and the majority of Gotham citizens did not dare to leave their houses for fear of the terrorists.

This dismal silence was broken by the rumbling noise of three stealth tanks, painted in desert camouflage, rolling down the streets toward Blackgate Prison. Curious citizens braved the streets to see what was happening. News crews were on hand as the tanks came to a halt in front of the gates.

Guards in the towers looked down, apprehensive, as a crowd gathered outside the prison walls. Blackgate had been under lockdown ever since the day before, when all those explosions had made it feel as if they were having an earthquake, and all the staff — from the janitor to the director — appeared distinctly jumpy this morning.

Prisoners heard the commotion from the outside, and right after excited shouts roused the entire cell blocks. Some of them peered outside the thin sliver of window in time to see Bane emerge from the lead tank, wearing a fur-lined winter coat with a raised collar.

The masked mercenary stood atop the tank, his coat open despite the cold. He turned to address the media. A hand-held microphone carried his sinister voice all the way up to her cell. A hush fell over the pavilions as everyone stopped to listen. Prisoners and guards like strained to hear his words.

"Behind you stands a symbol of oppression," Bane declared. "Blackgate Prison. Where a thousand men have languished for years. Under the Dent Act. Under the name of this man."

He held up a photo of a handsome blond hero.

"Harvey Dent. Held up to you — and over you — as a shining example of justice and good."

* * *

Sarah's apartment was a lot like Gordon had pictured it, small and cozy, with feminine touches. Books and potted plants and tasteful art melded perfectly into the neat, clean decor.

As she rummaged through the kitchen cupboards, foraging for supplies, Gordon exited the bathroom freshly cleaned. Borrowed clothes from a neighbor had replaced his hospital gown. They fit, sort of.

He slid further down in a comfy easy chair in front of the turned-on tv. Tiredness crept over him. Not the usual quiet, muscle-numbing tiredness, but a raw ache to his body that lack of sleep and too much worry gave him.

His eyes sagged shut. Sealing in images of the day before.

"We've gotta keep moving", Sarah reiterated. "It's not safe to just sit down here. We can contact Barb on the way—"

Live broadcast from Blackgate Prison caught their attention and both stared gravely at the screen, where Bane could be seen delivering a speech in front of the supermax. The masked maniac set fire to Harvey Dent's photo. His voice boomed from the television.

"_But they supplied you a false idol_," the lunatic said. "_A straw man to placate you. For years, authorities have been keeping the people of Gotham in the dark…_"

Hardened criminals peered through the barred windows of the prison. They started cheering raucously in the background.

"_For years, they've been hiding the truth._" Bane dropped the burning picture. The ashes fell to the pavement in front of his tank.

"_Let me tell you the truth about Harvey Dent. In the words of Gotham's police commissioner, James Gordon._"

Sarah turned away from the cupboards, wondering what exactly Bane was trying to pull here. Gordon shifted uneasily upon his seat. Onscreen, the mercenary leader unfolded a sheath of crumpled papers. He began to read aloud.

"'_The truth about Harvey Dent is simple in only one regard — it has been hidden for too long. After his devastating injuries, Harvey's mind recovered no better than his mutilated face. He was a broken, dangerous man, not the crusader for justice that I, James Gordon, have portrayed him to be for the last eight years. Harvey's rage was indiscriminate. Psychopathic._

"'_He held my family at gunpoint, then fell to his death in the struggle over my son's life. The Batman did not murder Harvey Dent — he saved my boy.'" _Sarah stared aghast at the screen. She could not believe what she was hearing.

"'_Then Batman took the blame for Harvey's appalling crimes, so that I could, to my shame, build a lie around this fallen idol.'"_

Gordon lowered his face to his hands.

"'_I praised the madman who tried to murder my own child.'"_

The crowd fell silent, stunned by what they were hearing, as Bane continued reading.

"'_The things we did in Harvey's name brought desperately needed security to our streets. But I can no longer live with my lie. It is time to trust the people of Gotham with the truth, and it is time for me to resign.'"_

Bane folded the papers and put them away. He gazed out over the speechless crowd, which included reporters and neighborhood toughs. Guards and inmates watched intently from inside Blackgate's forbidding stone walls and towers.

Bane called out to the mob.

"_Do you accept this man's resignation_?"

At first no one responded, but then a few angry faces in the back started shouting.

"_Yes!"_

More voices took up the cry. Inside Blackgate, the prisoners started cheering even more boisterously than before. They whooped and pounded against the bars of their cells.

"_Do you accept the resignation of all the liars?" _Bane demanded. "_All the corrupt?"_

"_Yes!" _A chorus of voices, both inside and outside the prison, gave Bane their answer. "_YES!"_

Sarah looked away from the TV in disgust. She stared accusingly at Gordon, who sat mutely on the couch. His guilty expression was all the evidence the lieutenant needed. Her own face hardened.

"Those men, locked up in Blackgate for eight years, _denied parole _under the Dent Act," she said flatly. "Suspects held indefinitely without trial. Based on a lie."

"A lie to keep a city on fire from burning to the ground." Gordon looked up at her. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. "Gotham needed a hero, someone to believe in—"

"Even at the cost of you betraying everything you stood for?" Sarah asked harshly.

Gordon gave the woman a rueful look.

"Maybe one day you'll have such a moment of crisis, when you'll be about to lose everything you worked so hard for." His voice was both sad and tired. "Then you'll see that when certain difficult choices must be made, things are not as black and white."

Disillusioned, Sarah was in no mood to grant Gordon absolution.

"The end doesn't justify the means."

She headed for the door, knowing that there was still some packing to do but she was unable to process this right now.

* * *

The pavilions were in an uproar. Nervous guards looked on apprehensively, clutching their weapons with sweaty palms as the prisoners reacted loudly to all the excitement outside.

Standing atop his tank, Bane signaled to one of the other armored vehicles. A formidable-looking gun turret swiveled toward the prison gates.

"We take Gotham from the corrupt," Bane ranted, shouting over the clamor of the mob. "The rich. The oppressors of generations who've kept you down with the myth of opportunity. And we give the city to you, the people. Gotham is yours — none shall interfere. Do as you please!"

Hellfire blasted from the cannon, blowing the heavy iron gates to pieces. Twisted metal fragments clattered down onto the sidewalk, leaving an open, smoldering cavity in the walls of the prison.

The emergency alarm wailed incessantly in the background as a contingent of guards ran along the corridors of the prison, their rifles pointed at the inmates. Foreseeing an imminent pandemonium, a few of the more cowardly turnkeys abandoned their posts, slipping away while they still could.

"But start by storming Blackgate and freeing the oppressed," Bane continued. "Step forward, those who would serve…"

His small militia army rushed the prison, surging through the burning gates. The mob chased after them, eagerly joining in the revolt. Pounding boots trampled over the blackened remains of Harvey Dent's photo. The guards that still stood at attention in front of the cell blocks doors shouted and raised their guns hopelessly. Outnumbered, they were soon overpowered by the throng.

Taking advantage of the chaos, Barsad — Bane's right-hand man — quickly slipped into the control room, and the two watchmen who were there offered little resistance. He soon found the cable he was searching for and ripped it apart.

The cell doors flew open, all across the prison, and the criminals peeked into the hall, suspicious at first, then trashing the place on their way out. Unlucky guards — the ones who had not fled or hidden in time — found themselves on the receiving end of eight years of pent-up grudges. It was not a good day to be wearing a uniform or a badge.

Dr. Jonathan Crane, aka Scarecrow, was one of the many to step out toward freedom. His low, ominous chuckle built to a crescendo as he watched a stream of orange jumpsuits racing for the hole that had been blown out the gates like angry ants.

Mercenaries handed out weapons to the prisoners escaping Blackgate. Shots were fired into the air in celebration, as the criminals rampaged through Gotham, encountering no resistance.

A news helicopter roared overhead in time to capture an image of Bane marching out like he owned the place — and that was exactly how he felt. Gotham City belonged to him now.

"This city belongs to the people," he shouted at the crowd with deep set, haunting eyes. "We must take it back! Stand together! A new dawn is coming, one without false saviors."

The cameras went wild as he pulled Batman's broken mask from his coat and and threw it contemptuously on the pavement at his feet. Reporters and snoopers exclaimed in unison, their eyes wide, understanding the meaning of the gesture.

No more savior. No more hope. No more Batman.

* * *

In the hours and days that followed, Bane's fiery oration was played constantly over the airwaves, as all that he prophesized came to pass.

"For an army will be raised…"

"The powerful will be ripped from their decadent nests…"

"And cast into the cold world the rest of us have known and endured…"

"Courts will be convened…"

"The spoils will be enjoyed…"

"Blood will be shed…"

"But the police will live, until they are ready to serve true justice…"

"This great city will endure. Gotham will survive."

Without the police force to enforce the law, complete chaos spread through the streets. The mass breakout from Blackgate was only the beginning. Other men and women, eager to join in the looting, poured into the streets as well, swelling the ranks of the ad hoc army. They found the city ripe for the taking.

An unmarked truck arrived at the waterfront, carrying several wooden crates bearing the Amertek Industries logo. The mercenaries opened them, revealing automatic rifles, grenade launchers and ammunition. The rioters blinked in surprise and started grabbing them all up.

Mercenaries, convicts, gang members, vandals, anarchists, and opportunists invaded expensive homes and went through, ransacking whatever they could. The wealthy residents were forcibly uprooted and herded onto the street by the barbarian horde.

Many families were separated. Lives were cut short. Those who opposed Bane's reign of terror were seen as '_enemies of the people'_ and tried in a kangaroo court attended by crowds of jeering spectators, with Jonathan Crane heading the sessions.

Laced with plenty of expensive Champagne, festive celebrations popped up posh neighborhoods after each new takeover. Winos, addicts, prostitutes, and homeless runaways had a field day, enjoying the spoils of their victories without any restraint or self-consciousness.

Meanwhile, hundreds of cops remained stuck underground. A basket full of supplies was lowered by ropes into the ruins of the tunnels from time to time to keep them fed and alive.

The reactor core glowed brightly, and lit gauges crept toward the red zone, as the large metal sphere was loaded into the back of an unmarked black truck. Mercenaries made sure the bomb was secured within the vehicle. Inside the truck, a digital counter ticked toward zero.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	24. 24 So Alike, So Different

**AN:** I'm so sorry for taking this long to update. I was travelling and busy for a couple of weeks. Hope you guys like this chapter. Again, don't forget to read and review.

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**24\. SO ALIKE, SO DIFFERENT**

Bruce could not bear to stand idly by while the city he swore to defend tear itself apart. He was a man used to action, to decisiveness. To acting rather than being acted on. Lying helpless in an uncomfortable makeshift bed like this was driving him nuts.

Natalia was right. If there was someone who could fix it all up, it was him, even if he began to feel he had lost his edge, especially after his failure to defeat Bane.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he rocked back and forth on his cot — until he rolled over the edge and landed on the hard stone floor. A harsh grunt escaped his lips as he placed his palms against the grimy floor and pressed against it.

His caretaker stared at him in confusion, as if fearing that his charge had fallen by accident. Not until Bruce managed to lift his face a few inches from the ground did it become obvious that — insanely — he was trying to do a pushup.

_Just one rep_, Bruce ordered himself. _You can do it!_

His screaming spine thought otherwise.

Natalia choose that moment to come up at his cell's door, carrying a small pile of old cloths and what appeared to be some supplies.

"Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey," she admonished, rushing to his side. "What the hell you think you're doing? You can barely stand up!"

She helped Bruce roll over onto his back. Every motion sent a bolt of searing pain up his spinal column. The rough stone floor felt like a bed of nails.

"I'm not meant to die in here," he told her grimly.

The healer stepped out from the shadows of the dim chamber and walked swiftly toward them.

"Here, let me help you," he said.

Since Bruce was unable to stand on his own, the doctor — with Natalia's help — managed to grab him carefully and put him back on his cot. The small amount of effort drove his pain upwards.

Suddenly the sound of a great turmoil outside got his attention, distracting him briefly from his suffering. "What?" he asked, curious, glancing outside even though he could not see much.

Shouting and swearing in several languages, a crowd of prisoners had gathered around a battered and limp body. The doctor did not bother to take an intently look and kept straightening the bandages Natalia had brought.

"Another idiot tried to escape. They've been agitated since you got here," he answered with a weary sigh.

"Has anyone ever made it?" Bruce asked.

His caretaker shook his head. "Of course not."

Natalia shot him a look that said she directly disagreed with that statement. "That's not what they say around here," she countered quietly. "There's one who did."

Bruce's eyebrow raised in curiosity and he darted his glance between them. He knew whom she meant but he needed some kind of endorsement. He finally focused his eyes on the old doctor and asked, "Bane?"

"Well, it's kind of an old and tricky story," the doctor admitted with a shrug. "Something to give false hope for those who stay here, buried alive. Nothing more."

Natalia gave the man a wry glance. That drew Bruce's scrutiny and he pushed hard in order to know his enemy.

"I've plenty of time. I'm not going anywhere," he insisted.

There was an awkward silence. Then the prisoner finally sighed, perhaps realizing that the American would only keep asking. Or maybe he simply hoped to distract Bruce with a story. In any event, the old doctor spoke softly, his voice hushed and doleful.

"There are many legends surrounding this place and about the man who had been able to cheat death and rise from the hell on earth. The most common story is that there was a mercenary working for the local warlord, who fell in love with his daughter. Their love was forbidden. So they fled away, married in secret and had a child. They managed to stay under the radar for a few years until the past decided to haunt them again..."

The doctor paused as if a lump had formed in his throat. He turned to Natalia, his dark eyes an unforgettable combination of shock and pain. As though reading his mind, Natalia glanced at him, all expression wiped from her face as if she was secretly challenging him to keep going on.

He stared at the floor as he resumed his story.

"The warlord found out the young family whereabouts. He send his henchmen to punish them. The warlord's daughter was killed trying to save her husband's life. The thugs set fire to the house without giving a damn if anybody was inside. They took the beaten mercenary with them as a proof of their work. When the warlord found out what had happened, he condemned the mercenary to this dungeon as a perpetual reminder of all his faults. The mercenary had years to plan his revenge, his escape. Then, during a time of insurrection, he made it. Outside, he sought refuge in the only place willing to recruit and help people like him – the League of Shadows. He became so good at what he did that soon he was named as one of their lieutenants."

"So that's how Bane joined the League?" Bruce asked after a prolonged silence.

"This is Bane's prison now. He would not want this story told," the healer answered. He seemed anxious to change the subject. "I'm gonna relieve the pressure on your back. It will help to keep the broken bone in place so it can heal properly, but I'm gonna need you to hold still, okay?"

Bruce nodded, then groaned and breathed heavily as the doctor — with Natalia's assistance — wrapped some bandages around his chest and ribs tightly.

"Here we go," the old man said as he retrieved a rope from the hall and tied it under Bruce's arms. "This is gonna hurt."

Wayne braced himself as — under Natalia's watchful eye — the healer knotted the rope securely beneath his arms, and then hurled the end over the open door of the cell, running around to take hold of it. Tugging on the rope, he pulled Bruce upright against the metal bars and tied the rope to them.

Bruce howled like a damned soul, as if he was being tortured upon the rack. Which — in a sense — he was. The unbearable pain was like nothing he had ever known.

He convulsed in torment, praying to pass out. He was not sure how much longer he could endure it, even after everything he had already been through. Oblivion would have been a mercy.

Razor-sharp spasms of pain rocketed up and down his brutalized body. He bit down on his lip as the healer adjusted the rope a little further so that he would stand fully straight. He tasted blood, realizing that apparently the tensioned rope worked as a supporting strap to immobilize and stabilize the fractured vertebra.

Grunting and gasping, he looked for a beacon of hope on Natalia's face. But soon her features became blurred and he finally lost consciousness from the pain.

Until now, Natalia had witnessed all his suffering in stoic silence. But once his body got limp and Bruce blacked out, she turned to the doctor — her face pinched with anxiety — and asked, "Is he gonna be OK?"

"Only time will tell." The man's voice was unsteady as he ran the palm of his hand across his forehead. He paused, studying her face warily. "Looks like you care very deeply for him. Yet, it feels like he doesn't really know you very well."

Nattie looked away and strode off stiffly.

"To be honest, we barely know each other," she lied. Images from the dinner night flashed through her mind. The long and honest conversation they had had. The kiss they had shared… "We're just business partners."

The doctor's eyes narrowed at her like he was not '_buying' _it.

"And now you two also share a mutual enemy."

"I want to put an end to the League's genocide plans but I need his help to do it," she admitted.

"I see." He turned and rested his gaze upon the inert, gaunt-faced man, who was kept standing thanks to thick ropes. "Is he the best person for the job you want him to do?"

"He killed the great Rā's al Ghūl. Does that tell you anything about his credentials?" she blurted out quite unceremoniously.

White Hair frowned, confusion shadowing his face.

Nattie laughed ruefully and then spoke, "I know what you're thinking… you're thinking how can I put up with that? Well, the game has changed. Our agendas seem to be lined up right now. That's a good start, don't you think so?"

The doctor smirked. "Like the old saying, '_the enemy of my enemy is my friend'_?"

"Exactly."

"Still, I sense there's a root of bitterness in your heart."

Nattie sighed. "I never knew it was possible to hate someone so deeply till the day I found out what this man had done. Just look where my hatred has led me. Now I need his help to fix my own faults," she said, with contrition.

"Hatred can be a useful tool," he replied, "but I think it is a bad master."

"Meaning that I should have let it go. Rā's had considered him to be his successor and yet he betrayed the League and destroyed the monastery. Our home. I could forgive him for that but not for being directly and indirectly responsible for the death of the two men I loved most in the world," Nattie told him, her voice raw with anger and grief. She did not care to elaborate on who she was including in this ledger and he did not insist.

"They're dead," the elderly stated, squeezing Nattie's shoulder briefly. "The dead belong to the past, Talia. How do you expect this sort of partnership to work out if you can't leave them there?"

"It has to. I agree with the League's goals, but I cannot condone its methods. I never did," she replied with a mixture of tiredness and determination, then touched the bruise swelling on her cheek slightly. "Besides I've had enough of being a pawn in Bane's endless schemes."

"Sorry for being a prophet of doom, but the best-case scenario is bad enough. Even if the American can get his strength back, you both will hardly succeed to get out of here. This place is a fortress."

"There's one thing you have to learn about me. I never quit," Nattie stated with conviction.

"So sure of yourself, aren't you?" the man asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Blame my genes."

He smiled faintly and handed her a bowl filled with some sort of grayish glop. Nattie was so hungry that she ate without caring about the food's appearance or even its taste. More than ever she needed to strengthen her body to face whatever might come ahead.

* * *

Days and nights dragged slowly by as Bruce hung within the jail, drifting in and out of consciousness, still not allowed to move. In his zombie-like state, he could hear the faint sound of distant voices and noises coming from the corridors outside, however, he had no idea when it was day or night since cell was as dark as ebony most of the time.

As he fought to keep his eyes open, scattered images came and went in his mind. Natalia beside him, murmuring words of encouragement. White Hair urging him to drink. Natalia wiping sweat from his face, neck and arms. Whoever else came and went, only the pain in his back was constant, giving him no relief.

At some point, sensory deprivation started to cause hallucinations and the ghosts of Bruce's past tormented him. First, Joker's hysterical laugh mocking him. Then, Rachel's and Harvey's voices as clear as crystal, blaming him for not having saved them. Finally, his long-dead mentor.

"Did you not think I'd return, Bruce?"

He looked up to see Rā's al Ghūl standing before him, appearing just as he had the last time Bruce had seen him. He was a tall, bearded man wearing a stern expression and a severe black suit. Bruce had originally known him as '_Henri Ducard'_, and had only later realized that Ducard was merely a convenient alias for the true master of the League of Shadows.

Icy blue eyes regarded Bruce with wry amusement.

"I told you I was immortal," he said.

_No, this is impossible_, Bruce thought. He vividly recalled a speeding monorail crashing to the street in a fiery explosion. "I watched you die," he gritted.

Rā's did not deny it.

"There are many ways of evading one's mortality."

A memory surfaced from the past, of the two of them sitting before a campfire beside a frozen lake. The older man had spoken tersely of his own tragic history.

"_Once I had a wife," he said. "My great love. She was taken from me."_

Then he recalled images from the time he had spent in the League of Shadows temple, the Asian Rā's al Ghūl, Ducard teaching him and explaining the purpose of that secret society.

"_My name is merely Ducard, but I speak for Rã's al Ghul, a man greatly feared by the criminal underworld. A man who could offer you a path."_

"_The League of Shadows has been a check against human corruption for thousands of years."_

"_You were my greatest student. It should be you standing by my side, saving the world."_

Alfred's voice came as if from a great distance.

_"Bane. Born and raised in a hell on earth."_

_"No one knows how he escaped. But they know who trained him once he did… Rā's al Ghūl . Your mentor."_

_"I spent too many years behind these disgusting walls. So long that I pretty much can call this place as home,"_ Bane's muffled voice came clearly through the fog of recollections and hallucinations.

The tapestry came together in Bruce's mind. Returning to the present, he stared at Rā's.

"You were the mercenary," he said. "The one who made it out. Bane never managed to escape. You recruited him from this prison, trained him just like me. To be your successor. Your heir."

Rā's nodded.

"An heir to ensure that the League of Shadows fulfills its duty to restore balance to civilization. Just as it has been done for centuries."

Bruce knew what that meant.

"No…"

But Rā's continued. "You yourself fought the decadence of Gotham for years – with all your strength and resources, all your moral authority. And the only victory you could achieve was a lie. Finally, you understand. Gotham is beyond saving."

"No!" Bruce's tormented cry echoed throughout the prison. He strained against the rope holding him up. The pain in his back was nothing compared to the agony of knowing that his city was in peril – and there was nothing he could do about it.

Rā's passed sentence on Gotham, as he had so many years before. "It must be allowed to die."

Taken out of desperation and agony, Bruce passed out once again.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	25. 25 Time Can Be Your Best Ally Or

**AN: **Sorry guys for the long delay. Along with a severe case of writer's block, I've been really busy. This chapter gave me lots of headaches due the scene in Washington. I almost gave up of it because I wasn't finding the right tone for the characters and just wanted it look realistic. During the creation process, I ended up including Amanda Waller, who might have a major role in the future, who knows? I hope it worked out and that you readers like the chapter. Don't forget to let me know what you're thinking, ok?

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**25\. TIME CAN BE YOUR BEST ALLY OR YOUR WORST ENEMY**

The weeks seemed to race by and the streets of Gotham were desolate as the autumn months braced the people for the winter's chill. As piles of reddened leaves built up on the pavement, apprehensive citizens locked themselves up in their houses and only crept out furtively if they absolutely had to. Most of public utilities and services had been interrupted or were poorly offered, making Gotham City the world's biggest ghost town.

Miles away from there, in Washington, D.C., a strong team of top government members were assembled around the massive conference table the size of an aircraft carrier in the National Military Command Center — _aka _Crisis Room. The President and his Vice along a couple of Secretaries and representatives from the armed forces, the DHS, the NSA, the CIA, and the FBI were discussing preparations for an operation to take the city back and restore order.

Seated at one end of the table, the President leaned over it, eager to be updated. He had taken off his jacket and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.

"Waller, what's the most recent diagnostic?" he asked, addressing the Afro-American woman standing at the other end of the table.

Wearing a smart suit and expensive high heels, she appeared to be in her mid-forties, and exuded self-confidence and some kind of Zen-like calm through piercing dark eyes. The lady in question was Amanda Waller, a top-ranking U.S. Government agent, an expert in strategic and tactical decisions. Her skills together with her implacability ensured her full and secure access to civil and military high commands. At this time, she was responsible for coordinating the actions of all government agencies involved in the resolution of that unprecedented crisis.

"Mister President, ladies, gentlemen," she began dryly. "Our intelligence sources say that Bane's army is primarily formed by soldiers of fortune coming from all over the world. We've been trying to profile them with little success. They're like ghosts, falling on and off the CIA's radar for quite a while."

She hit a key on the laptop and the massive wallscreen behind her winked from neutral blue to a myriad of scanned reports, aerial images, maps, mug shots, and several pictures taken with telephoto lenses of militia men with weapons. A photograph of Bane flashed in the middle of the screen.

"If they're hired guns, that means someone else is behind all this, right?" the Vice President asked, sounding like a student asking a teacher something he had been taught long ago but had since forgotten.

Like a patient priest, Amanda pursed her hands gently behind her back.

"That's just the point. We couldn't trace whoever's pulling the strings, which leads us to believe that—"

But the Secretary of State did not allow her to finish her sentence and interjected in a flustered tone, "They seem to have a great warlike power. Could this be an assault ordered up by one of our old enemies? The Iranians, Saudis, North Koreans, or even the Russians?"

Amanda glared at the woman and drew a deep breath. Thank heavens that was a possibility which she could dismiss almost for sure.

"Neither one of them, Madam Secretary. Seemingly Bane calls the shots all by himself," she replied and then nodded at one of the men sitting to her right. "McKean?"

Grant McKean was the current Director of the FBI. He cleared his throat, turning to the most important participants of the meeting and then firmly spoke.

"Several weeks ago, we were notified about a stolen cargo in Gotham's Harbor. Dozens of containers full of weapons made by one of the largest arms manufacturers in the world — Amertek Industries. We managed to track the paperwork. It says they were all acquired by Daggett Industries, a company that has no previous connection with the arms industry. Yet, they did the operation via a shell corporation."

Once again, Amanda took the reins of the situation and explained the connection, "John Daggett, CEO and owner of Daggett Industries, was found dead in a trash can on the day Bane and his men blew up the football field. In the past, he'd employed Bane and his mercs to help him secure diamond mining rights in West Africa."

Low murmurs filled the room in understanding of what Waller was getting at and ceased only when the Commander in Chief, with an exasperated growl, stood out from the others.

"Are you telling me that Daggett brought those people to Gotham and fomented their violent actions right under our noses, and no intelligence service had ever suspected something was not right?"

McKean gulped whilst Waller did not cringe a bit under the audience's interrogative stare. They shared a quick look but neither one of them replied.

Snappy, the President made a quick gesture with his hands, saying, "Go on."

Amanda continued without missing her usual aplomb at any point. "In recent weeks he managed to mobilise popular support as many citizens joined his army."

"This so-called Revolution is a travesty. No man can be both savior and oppressor," the Vice President spilled out. "What they think they will achieve with that?"

The President glanced at him. "People are confused and scared, Martin. In a fit of desperation, they turned to a power-crazed charismatic leader who drew them like moths to a flame."

"The Dent Act was a mistake from the start, no more than an unconstitutional law that pretty much invalidated the sixth amendment. The masked man was just the spark in Gotham to set fire to the powderkeg of an already explosive situation," the other man countered exasperatedly.

The President grimaced and rubbed his face in a weary gesture.

The Secretary of Defense, who had until then remained in silence, protested, "Are you advocating for what this man has done? Because it's one thing to blow the whistle. It's another thing to take lives. And we're surely dealing with a cold-blooded killer."

By this time, feelings were obviously running high in the room. Always diplomatic, the Secretary of State tentatively broke in upon the men's debate, just like a mother trying to stop a mutual bickering between siblings. "We should figure out what are their demands. There must be something we could use to bargain with them."

"Are you suggesting we negotiate with tyranny?" the Secretary of Defense asked with a hint of mockery in his tone. Despite the seriousness of this situation, a wave of suppressed giggles roiled through the room.

The Secretary of State turned her head and dealt the wag man an arctic glare.

The President took a moment and surveyed the face of his advisors. After a long sigh of frustration, he spoke up, "The way I see it, a military assault is too dangerous. I'm unwilling to risk aggravation of the situation. I have every intent of re-taking the city with the minimum of civilian casualties."

"You're right, Sir," Amanda started. "History has proved that a direct confrontation involving a hostage crisis usually doesn't end well. But we have to address the larger picture and the complications."

"What complications are you referring to?"

"Those people won't be able to handle it for too much longer. Sooner or later they're gonna pack up in the middle of the night to get the hell out of town. Therein lies the rub_. _ We need to do something before things spiral out of control." Amanda's expression was unreadable as she looked over to an uniformed man. "Let me hand the floor to Air Force General Matthew Armstrong."

The current commander of the USSOCOM nodded and rose from his seat. If there was anyone in that room that had been kept up with the developments of this crisis since the very beginning, it was him.

"Our recon drones identified three trucks moving around the city constantly. We believe they keep the bomb on one of them, but it must have a lead-lined roof because the satellite can't see any radiation hot spots. It's a shell game," he reported.

"Any leads on the trigger man?" the President asked.

"Not yet. If there's actually one but Bane, it would require more intelligence fieldwork. The fact is that the bomb _per se_, Sir, might only be the tip of the iceberg," Armstrong answered, then stepped back, pointing to a set of blueprints and photographs on the wallscreen. "Years ago, Wayne Enterprises built a nuclear fusion reactor to be the ultimate in clean, endless power. The first of its kind. Some time later, the project was shut down unexpectedly. That's the device that is in the hands of Bane and his men. With Dr. Pavel's aid, he turned the core into a bomb, then disconnected it from the reactor."

"And here's the important part," Waller prompted.

General Armstrong looked over toward the attendees, now in suspended attention.

"As the device's fuel cells decay," he said, "it's becoming increasingly unstable, until the point of detonation."

Waller spelled it out. "The bomb's a time bomb."

"And it will go off," Armstrong stated gravely. "In about three and half months. Four months at the latest."

Everyone in the room got literally paralysed by this revelation. Some of them seemed to slump down in their chairs.

"What a disaster" the Vice President muttered.

"Are you telling me we're dealing with a weapon of mass destruction that will blow anyway?" the President asked when the silence got too oppressive. "Please, Waller, tell me you have a solution."

"I've got an entire team of scientists and engineers working on it."

The President rubbed his now throbbing temples. "In other words, we have no idea what we're getting ourselves into."

"With all due respect, Sir," she replied flatly. "The priority now is to somehow get out into the besieged town turned into impregnable military stronghold against all comers and put a stop to Bane's reign of terror and chaos."

"We need to get eyes inside to assess the situation, Sir," Armstrong added.

The President glanced from Waller to Armstrong and back again, but he could not tell what either of them was thinking.

Not missing a beat, Waller said, "I'd like Admiral Trevor to explain the planned infiltration attempt, codenamed _Operation Trojan Horse_."

As General Armstrong returned to his seat, Admiral Derek Trevor stood up to address the meeting participants respectfully.

"Mr. President, Mr. Vice President, ladies, gentlemen. Operation Trojan Horse is now ready to implement. I've got a SEAL team standing by to go to Gotham City. lt'll coincide with the next supply delivery, ten days from now. It's our only chance to go in there and evaluate the situation more thoroughly. lf we lose it, those people don't stand a chance."

The President nodded, prodding the other man to go on and explain the mission, involving infiltration of special forces in the city. The clock was ticking and they were behind the eight ball.

* * *

Halfway around the world, days also passed into weeks.

When Bruce came to awareness, Natalia and the healer guy were hovering over him like a pair of busy nurses, poking and prodding and cleaning his injuries. The delirium had passed, taking the ghosts with it, and he could think clearly again. But that was not enough. He had to know if he was still broken.

He slowly opened his eyes, adjusting to the dim light a little at a time.

"Ah, so you are awake," the elder man said. "Not too bad."

Without thought, Bruce's gaze searched for Natalia and there she was by his side, a soft smile on her face and her eyes full of endearment.

As she reach to cup his cheek — her touch tender and light — he noticed she looked thin and vulnerable, her eyes dark-shadowed, her hair lank and dull. It was not like he looked much better. He was feeling dirty, smelly and gross right now.

"You okay?" she asked cautiously.

Though he was a bit sore all over, he managed to croak, "_'_ve been better." His throat dry and cracked from disuse.

The doctor carefully untied the rope, ready to catch Bruce if he fell.

Bracing himself for the pain, he took a deep breath and placed his weight upon his bare feet. A wave of dizziness assailed him, and he swore under his breath as he lost his balance and had to put a hand on the wall to steady himself.

Although the light-headedness was only momentary, his legs did not respond with the same speed or strength as before. It was as if the messages just were not getting through from his brain to his muscles. The fact drove him crazy but he was not going to let that stop him.

And thinking about muscles...

He looked down at his body. Well, he remembered having muscles. Now his build was definitely leaner, another thing he needed to work on.

"That's enough for today," White Hair said anxiously. He came forward to offer assistance. "You should rest."

Bruce shook his head. He had rested enough already. Gotham needed him.

Under his caretakers' watchful gaze, he took a step forward. And another. His bad knee still bothered him, but at least he was standing on his own power again.

Natalia stepped up to him. "Here you go. Will you need a hand?" she asked.

He looked her straight in the eye and gave her a half smile. "I think I can manage."

Therefore she merely nodded, giving him the space he needed, but keeping an eye on him at the same time.

Shaking, Bruce walked up to one of the battered cots, carefully sitting down.

The doctor approached him, taking a seat on a wooden stool in front of his patient. "Now if you'll stay still, I'll examine your back and your limbs."

Bruce submitted as the man unwound the bandages around his torso and made a thorough physical examination, evaluating the status of his reflex responses and the back bones and joints positioning.

"Excellent!" White Hair declared, straightening. "You've made a remarkable recovery. I'm never seen a man so screwed get well so quickly!"

Bruce and Natalia exchanged a glance and then both chuckled at the awkward choice of the doctor's words.

"There's a common proverb in the land where I came from, something parents say to their children: At the time of a crucible, a person rises or falls. If you survive it, you grow the stronger for it," the old man added, producing a small bottle from his pocket.

"Take this tonic," he said, handing Wayne the item. "It'll make you feel better."

Bruce did as he was told, but the medicine tasted so vile that bile rose at the back of his throat. He clenched his teeth to keep from throwing up, taking deep breaths to still the malaise.

Then the healer gave each one of them a bowl of something that resembled a broth. "Now eat some bread and soup. You need to regain your strength."

Bruce had no appetite at all, yet, because Natalia watched so worriedly, he took a bite out of the dry bread and downed it, finding that more difficult than he expected.

Meanwhile, White Hair gathered his stuff. "I'll leave you now," he said softly. "Remember, child, he still needs to rest."

"I'll remember," Natalia replied, taking the vacant seat opposite Wayne, and then the man left the cell.

She looked down at her bowl, toying with the spoon in her soup as she considered something. The act did not escape Bruce's watchful eye. He set his spoon down.

"What is eating you up?" he asked after sensing her tensed persona.

She gave him a wry grin. "I'm weighing my options for protein source. I'm torn between bugs and… well... bugs. The rats doesn't seem to be very healthy. Of course, there's always the chance that another prisoner dies so he'd become the next meal."

"This must be hell for you," he said solemnly, acknowledging that she was doing remarkably well, despite their traumatic experience and the extremely brutal and deplorable prison conditions. He expected no less than the quiet dignity he knew she possessed and that he had somehow learned to admire.

"Difficult," she admitted with a sigh, not bothering to disguise the bitterness in her voice.

Her blunt reply made his temper rise. "Really?" Bruce snapped. "I could swear that eating rats and sleeping close to disgusting latrines doesn't fit well with a pampered princess lifestyle."

Natalia stared at him, her gaze growing mad. "I suppose not," she said harshly, "but how would I know anyway? I wasn't born into health. There was no grand mansion house in my family to pass down through generations. I didn't enjoy a privileged childhood or have the advantage of a private education. I grew up in a world where only the strong survive. Resilience runs in my blood."

Bruce shifted uncomfortably, suddenly ashamed of his own outburst, and then popped an antacid, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I had no right."

She uttered a brief, broken sound that was neither laugh nor protest, yet somehow gave her the oxygen to say a little more. "I've warned you about judging a book by its cover."

"I apologise," he offered smoothly.

Natalia hung her head again, clearing her throat as it cost her to speak, "Accepted."

"I'm really sorry," he said and then reached across the cot and nudged her chin up with his knuckle, forcing her to meet his gaze again. "It's just… I've been through a lot recently and I'm still trying to process everything."

"That makes two of us."

He tried to lead the conversation to another subject, "Got any ideas on how to get out of here?"

Her expression softened. "I wish I knew. This place was made to keep people in. The unlucky ones that end up here are forgotten from the rest of the world."

Bruce's face was grim. "There must be a way out of here. After all, we know this place is not inescapable. Someone made it ."

"The mercenary of the story—"

"—was not Bane. Too many things I've heard about him over the past months haven't added up. So I started looking into things, without the assumptions of the past. In my delirium everything started making a lot more sense." Bruce stopped, stared at her, suddenly saw how he must look. "I'm not being logical, am I?"

Natalia licked her lower lip nervously and mumbled, "Not much, no."

"The truth is, like Bane, I also used to be a member of the League of Shadows. I mean, I was trained by them but I never completed the initiation rite. The head of the League was the man who had managed to cheat death. He was the one who successfully escaped this prison." He paused, taking in a deep breath. "He used to be a friend… And then he became a foe."

"What happened? Did you kill him?" she asked anxiously.

"I didn't save him," Bruce confessed with remorse. "And not a day goes by when I don't think about it." His face and voice hardened. "It is never easy to know a man died because of your actions. But if I hadn't stopped him, I think of the hell he could had unleashed. The stakes were that high. He was willing to erase a whole city. I couldn't allow that."

He saw her swallow two, then three times, as if she was fighting to control her emotions. Some part of him realized she was afraid of him or perhaps disgusted with his revelations. Or maybe something else he could not name.

Then his fingers brushed hers and her gaze leapt up to his instantly, her eyes wide and wary. Locking his eyes on hers, he said, "We'll find a way to get out of here. Together."

Natalia nodded, his words bringing comfort, and yet… She stood, the remainder of her food forgotten, and moved away from him, crossing her arms over her chest as if she were cold.

"When I was first brought here," she managed to speak. "I saw half a dozen men — maybe a few more — with rifles and machine guns on the upper ground level. Some of them stay inside the building. The others watch over the outside. They have to come and check on us occasionally. Doc said there's some sort of pit in the east wing through which supplies are passed down. Maybe we could climb up."

"That's how they got me in. I faintly remember they moving me down through a long dark shaft."

"So, this is it. That's gonna be our exit," she declared, convicted. "We must come up with a plan."

A nod was his only response.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	26. 26 Evening The Odds

**AN: **Sorry for the long delay. I've been struggling with a bad case of writer's block. Anyway, don't let this story die. Post a review after reading.

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**26\. EVENING THE ODDS**

Holiday season came to Gotham with no trace of celebration or joy, only the heartbreaking disappointment of knowing that the island city had been cut off from the rest of the United States of America and its citizens were being made hostages of a faux-revolutionary militia.

As the days of the siege were unfolding, freedmen from Blackgate stepped up their attacks. Chaos was escalating. But today, everything was quiet and one could feel an atmosphere of grief and helplessness.

Although only November, the bone-chilling winds foretold of an early and harsh winter ahead.

Huge piles of fallen crimson and gold leaves were replaced by a thick layer of ice and snow. Pools of dirty brown slush drowned the street corners. Feeble sunlight fought a losing battle against the cold.

Shivering, Barbara Gordon shoved her shaking hands in her coat's pockets. It was not the familiar ice and snow blanketing the deserted street that sent a chill down her spine, but the armored tanks passing by, patrolling the city, its thick tires carving deep tracks in the soggy white accumulation.

Apprehension gripped her and she held her breath until the combat vehicle rounded the corner. She tried her best to look calm, hoping that anyone who might be watching her would recognise her pose as nonchalance.

When the tank was no longer a threat, the teenager leaned against a street lamp pole for support. Heaven knew she needed it. Her legs were quivering. No amount of preparation could have stopped the fear of being caught. And if she were caught, she would suffer the same fate as all the other insurgents had had. The certain death.

Snow crunched under her dark purple boots as she crossed the street and discretely made a signal behind her back, telling Lieutenant Essen the coast was clear.

Mission accomplished, the red-haired girl speed-walked into the alley and disappeared.

_Good girl_, the female cop thought.

She moved out of the shadow, turning at the corner and stealthily heading around the block. She glanced left and right, then crouched beside a storm drain. Melting slush trickled down it.

Sarah hoped the entombed cops were collecting the icy water. It had been ten long, distressing weeks since Bane had sprung his trap, and the buried officers had been living on scraps and captured vermin ever since. It was a wonder that they had not yet completely given up hope.

_Hang in there, buddies_, she thought.

She fed a kite string down through the grate until she felt a tug on the other end. Sarah could only imagine what it was like for the poor cops trapped in the underground all this time, away from their families and loved ones.

Two months in the dark.

Two months stuck in a hole while Bane and his followers ran roughshod over Gotham.

It must be getting damn cold down there.

Sarah pulled up the string, and there was nothing there. The note she had attached to it had been removed. It was a crude way to stay in contact, but it was something. At least her fellow police colleagues knew they had not been forgotten.

_If only there was something more we could do for them_, she thought. _Someday._

A breeze kicked up, and the biting air stung her face. Her breath frosted in front of her lips. It was time to get out of the cold.

She stood up and hurried away, promising herself that she would deliver another message soon.

Avoiding the major boulevards, she stuck to back alleys and secondary streets as she cautiously made her way across town. Even though it was broad daylight, the streets and sidewalks were largely deserted. Law-abiding folks were huddled in their homes, trying to ride out the occupation.

Bane's army of mercenaries and miscreants appeared to be staying indoors, as well. Sarah found herself grateful for the harsh weather, which reduced the odds of running into any roving bands of troublemakers. She just needed to keep an eye out for the more dedicated enforcers. Otherwise, she would end up on trial just for being a cop.

The temperature continued to drop. By the time she made it to the Gotham Cathedral, she could barely feel her toes anymore. Her cheeks felt red and raw. She stamped the snow off her winter shoes before slipping into the church via a back door. She locked it carefully behind her.

No longer just a place of worship, the 150-year-old building was packed with homeless refugees, either driven from their homes or hiding from Gotham's new masters. Men, women, and children huddled in every corner, camping out even in the halls and stairwells. Many still had the shell-shocked look of disaster victims.

Sarah spotted Father Reilly consoling a weeping family in the aisle. She exchanged a look with the elderly priest as she crossed the eastern end apse and slipped through a door into a dimly lit room, smelling of naphthalene and bees-wax. The room gave access to the crypt below via a small, locked door, revealing well-worn steps leading downwards into the bowels of the church.

Unbeknownst to the occupation forces and even the refugees, the few policemen who remained on the surface managed to make an underground safe house below the church. It was a dark place with no heating, where they got together and exchanged intel. Deputy Commissioner Foley, Chief Bock, detectives Driver and MacDonald, and a little more than a dozen other members of the GCPD were already there, as well as former Mayor Anthony Garcia.

In response to the attack, the politician — alongside the Commissioner — secretly issued a state of emergency, assembling a coterie of "_rebels"_ that were mobilising and working around the clock as part of the effort to resist occupation. But they had been unable to advance much further. Bane and his army controlled everything and everyone with iron fist. Woe to whoever would be on the wrong side.

Sarah found them standing quietly, waiting, each with their own thoughts, hands thrust deep into pockets or folded under armpits, shifting from foot to foot in an attempt to stay warm. Their heads turned in her direction as soon as she walked in.

"So how did everything go?" Detective Josie MacDonald asked.

Sarah smirked. "Easier than I'd expected. Yet not a bit less scary."

"Are they still hunting down cops like dogs?" a young guy named Moench questioned eagerly.

"Uh-huh. Seems the cold made them backpedal, though. The streets lie deserted; only a few living souls braved the icy winds. I feel bad for anyone who needs an emergency service."

Deputy Commissioner Foley chimed in, "I wonder how long will it take to some smartass try and make a breakout."

"How?" Sarah prompted, forcing herself to not roll her eyes in annoyance. "The government set up a military blockade to prevent people from entering or exiting the island. People are so scared of Bane's threats they don't even want to leave their homes."

"That's good," the former Mayor Anthony Garcia stated, trying to ease the tension between the two. "The fewer people who take themselves into a life-or-death situation, the better."

Foley sighed in resignation.

"We can't go home. We can't keep running. We're starting to get completely out of options. What are we supposed to do when the going gets tougher?" he said.

Suddenly, before anyone could say anything else, a sharp, familiar voice cut through the shadows.

"Well, of one thing I am sure: I'm not going to take the football and go home." Commissioner Gordon stepped into the light, making certain he could address all of them. He still had the walk of a weary man, yet his words were marred with iron determination. "There's no victory without fight. And that's just what we're going to do."

To Sarah, he looked as if he had not slept a solid three hours in months, perhaps years. Chances were that he had not.

"Gordon's right. We can't let these guys tear Gotham City apart. We can't let them win," Garcia added solemnly.

Glancing at each person forming a protective circle around him, Jim continued, "Obviously, we don't stand a chance against an army of terrorists in a straight-up fight. We're outnumbered and outgunned. So, our priority is track down the trigger device and then figure out a safe way to neutralize the bomb."

Bock grinned for the first time in ages. "Now we're getting somewhere."

"Once we have the advantage card on our side, we'll free the police officers trapped down in the tunnels," the commissioner explained.

Foley shot him a skeptical glance. "And how exactly do we do it? Assuming we're still alive by then."

Sarah watched some of her colleagues exchange glances, an uncomfortable look spreading across each of their faces. She flicked a peep at Gordon who looked entirely helpless, as if he had no idea what to say next.

So she tilted her head slightly and gave him a knowing look before speaking, "I'm working on it. Guess I've found a direct, secret route. Despite heavy security, I think we can exploit this weak link."

"Finally, once we get our own army we can recover control of the city," the veteran cop added, though not everyone looked quite convinced. "Mr. Mayor, how are the attempts to re-establish communication with the outside world?"

"I'm happy to announce that the boys from the Monarch Theater managed to get a secure line and contact troops based in Blüdhaven," the other man told them with renewed enthusiasm**.** "They designed it to evade detection. Soon, we'll have something solid."

After Bane's attack, internet service and the phone network had been disrupted for the most part. Only 10 per cent of the mobile network was running well, and on top of that, congested. The only way to communicate with outside was through encrypted radio messages.

"Good," Gordon replied. "There's almost twelve million faces out there and they can't track them all. So, we'll find people we can trust. Friends with their ears to the ground who can help us get the things we need to fight back."

Then he approached two of his most reliable detectives. "Driver and Josie Mac. I want you guys to search out the veterans and establish some order among the volunteers."

They nodded and Gordon dealt with the others.

"As for the rest of you, keep your eyes peeled," he commanded. "Watch what they do. Study their tactics, their routines. The more we know, the easier it will be to hit them on our terms. When we're good and ready. We inherited our freedom. But please, be careful out there. All of you. Understood?" He added, dismissing the group.

Everyone answered, "Yes, sir," and without another word, they headed for the door off the room, back upstairs.

Essen moved as well but stopped at the sound of Gordon's voice calling her, "Sarah, wait! Can I just talk to you for a sec?"

She turned around slowly, narrowing her own eyes with suspicion. She pursed her lips but said nothing. They barely had spoken to each other since Bane had revealed the truth about Harvey Dent on national television.

Gordon cleared his throat and asked, "Have you seen my daughter?"

Sarah saw caution in his eyes, as if he were well aware that their mutual trust had been stretched to the breaking point by circumstances beyond both of their control. But she also noticed the natural anxiety of a concerned and caring parent in his tone.

"She's doing fine, Comish. She misses you," Sarah assured him.

His stern expression softened.

"And I her." His faltering smile just confirmed that. "What about you?"

She fixed her eyes on him questioningly.

"What about me?"

"How is everything goin'? I mean, with your sneaky wanderings through town?"

"Fine... I guess."

_Fine,_ Sarah thought wearily. Yeah, fine was good definition for the mix of feelings she had been experiencing lately. A great acronym for freaked out, insecure, neurotic and emotional. That probably summed it up nicely.

"Great. Look, I know you're still mad at me and I understand that, but can you put our differences aside and move forward?"

She blinked, surprised and a little startled, and then said, earnestly, "I've already have, sir. And I think I owe you an apology. I'm sorry about being too hard on you on that day. Just an accumulation of stress that needed an outlet."

Gordon shrugged. "We're dealing with a crisis. It's natural you feel that way."

She studied her commanding officer for a minute as he pulled a roughly bat-shaped shuriken from his pocket and spun it between his fingers absently.

"Do you think he threw in the towel?" she asked.

"I don't want to believe he's abandoned us, but I do recognize reality. He's not coming," he replied without looking up at her.

"How do you know?"

The commissioner turned to her and for a moment their eyes met and an understanding passed between them.

"He'd have been here by now. We would have heard something by now."

Gordon had a point. The masked vigilante had not been seen neither they had heard from him since before Bane's army had started taking over the city and turning it into a war zone, leading the police to believe that he had abandoned Gotham.

But then a darker thought crossed her mind. _Could Batman be dead_? _Had something catastrophic occurred and cost him his life?_

It felt like maybe he really was gone.

Maybe, somehow, he had walked away while he could. The fact was that there was no Batman to back them up right now.

As if he had read her thoughts, the commissioner tore her from her reverie.

"We have to make our way through this without him," he said. "No more myths and legends. This time it's up to us. This time it's the GCPD that puts the fear into the criminals. We're taking back Gotham. Us."

"Okay," she assented and and turned to leave.

Again, Gordon stopped her before she reached the door.

"And, lieutenant, don't try anything too hasty out there," he warned. "I don't wanna lose another one of our finest."

She nodded briefly and walked out of the cavernous room, going back out into the cold shortly afterwards.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


End file.
